Tis the Season
by Harvester of Eyes
Summary: It's Christmas Eve in Manhattan, and Demona is looking forward to a quiet evening of plotting. Unfortunately, the Children of Oberon have other plans. My satire of A Christmas Carol. Happy Holidays, folks!
1. Chapter 1

'**Tis the Season**

By Harvester of Eyes Mumbo-Jumbo: All the characters appearing in _Gargoyles_and _Gargoyles: The Goliath Chronicles_ are copyright Buena Vista Television/The Walt Disney Company. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and is not authorized by the copyright holder. All original characters are the property of the author. This work is being distributed freely and without any financial gain whatsoever.

Warning: What with this being a Christmas tale, I did my very best to make this one enjoyable for all ages, but there might be a few small things that may not be for kids (including a smidge of sacrilege). It's rated PG, but parents: you can judge for yourselves. Hell, that's what you should be doing anyway. They're _your_ kids.

As with everything I write, comments are welcome, but I do ask that you not over-analyze this one. It's intended to be little more than satire, so lighten up and just try to enjoy it. And I apologize in advance to that master of the English language, the late Mr. Dickens.

"Miss Galloway, did you hear what I said?" Dominique Destine rapped her palm hard against the surface of her desk, bringing the attention of her assistant back to the here and now. The younger woman had been staring absently out the large picture window in the CEO's office, watching the snow fall peacefully onto the city below. More than a foot had accumulated already, making the skyline of Manhattan appear as a large wedding cake.

Erin Galloway sighed as she absently tucked a strand of brown hair behind her ear, and resumed writing on her legal pad. "Yes, Miss Destine, I heard you," she replied. "The quarterly meeting for Research and Development has been pushed back to December 26th. I've already notified Dr. Sevarius and his staff."

Dominique sighed, clearly still annoyed that her assistant could take such an interest in a pointless frivolity as crystallized water. She almost found herself missing her old assistant. True, she had possessed ulterior motives, and the next time they encountered each other, Demona would reduce the human to an oily stain on the wall. But Robyn had been a woman devoted one-hundred percent to business, someone who actually knew what she was being paid to do, and did it. This woman, the one who had been a position below Robyn and risen up a rank after the former Hunter's termination from Nightstone, was barely fit to fill her predecessor's pumps.

Erin sensed her employer's distress, and immediately straightened her posture a bit. "I'm sorry, Miss Destine," she said. "It's just that the last time it snowed on Christmas Eve, I was about five, maybe six. I guess it just…"

"I'm not interested in your childhood, Miss Galloway," Dominique said curtly, cutting the assistant's reminiscence short. "Frankly, I fail to see what makes a simple thing as snow such a big damn deal in the first place."

_How could I?_Dominique mused silently. _At night, when I'm in my true form, snow feels little different than rain, after all_.

With that, Dominique immediately resumed shuffling through the stack of memos in her right hand, turning over the one on top and glancing at the one below it. Erin, however, just couldn't understand how Dominique could still take the same humbug attitude she had the year before.

"But this is a Christmas snow, Miss Destine," Erin tried to explain. "This type of thing usually only happens in movies."

"And it can stay in the movies, for all I care," retorted Dominique. "We have work to finish." The CEO glanced at the Rolex on her wrist. Already, it was three-thirty. She would need to leave the office soon.

With reluctance, Erin turned her back to the window and tapped her pen against the pad. "Very well, ma'am," she said with a nod. Dominique's usual humbug attitude aside, the older woman did have a point. The sooner they wrapped up, the sooner Erin could get down to the party taking place on the floor below.

A short while later, their business was concluded and Dominique's calendar had been updated. "And I want the revised reports on my desk in triplicate by New Year's, understand?" the fiery-haired executive asked as she rose from her seat.

"Yes, ma'am," Erin Galloway responded as her pen flew across the pad. She was so preoccupied with her writing that she almost didn't see Dominique get out of her seat. Tucking the pad under her arm and the pen behind her ear, she moved quickly to the office's entrance, making it to the door a step ahead of Dominique. She snatched the brown wool overcoat off of the nearby rack and handed it to her employer with one hand as she opened the door with her other.

"Are you leaving already, Miss Destine?" Erin asked as they stepped out of the office. The assistant paused by her desk to organize all the notes that she had taken and file some things away for later.

Dominique had just finished donning her coat, and paused in the action of pulling on her black gloves to scowl at the younger woman. "Is there something we forgot to review in my office?" she asked as tersely as possible.

"Last year you left at the same time," said Erin. "And, like every other night of the year, it was to go straight home…"

"I believe I have explained myself to you," Dominique interjected. "I have better things to do with my time than attend some social function for a meaningless holiday. The only reason I even let you incompetent fools misbehave on my time is because my accountants have advised me that it's a good tax write-off. As far as I'm concerned, Christmas means less to me than just about any other day of the year. It's just an excuse for humans… I mean, workers, to sleep late." In the back of her mind, Dominique was slapping herself for allowing her already short temper to have caused that fatal slip of the tongue._Perhaps if this naïve human weren't so damn annoying!_

Fortunately, Erin seemed too stung by Dominique's barbs against the holiday to notice her employer's curious choice of words. Dominique decided to use the pause to nip this thing in the bud before the human started in on sharing, families, and the birthday of that fictitious half-blooded baby whom Dominique suspected that, even if he really did exist, was just a bastard son of Oberon.

"If you'll excuse me, it's almost four. I'd like to be home before it gets too dark out there." With that, Dominique drew her hood up carefully around the conservative hairstyle she wore during the day, and started for the elevators. She had only gone a few steps when she turned around once more.

"Oh, and Miss Galloway? I expect you to return those calls to the Colorado branch before you leave to go downstairs. Otherwise, don't bother coming in on the morning of the 26th."

Erin Galloway sighed and nodded her head in understanding. "Merry Christmas, Miss Destine," she said with a slight smile. Dominique scowled, using all her restraint to keep from spitting on the carpeting in reply. Instead, she simply turned and continued on to the elevator.

As soon as the CEO was out of sight, Erin allowed her demeanor to become more relaxed. She slipped out of her heels as she sat down at her desk, and started to dial the number for the Nightstone distribution center in Colorado. "If anyone needed to get laid, it's her," she muttered to herself. "Old crank probably has cobwebs on her cobwebs."

It was a few minutes past sunset, and Demona, now as her gargoyle self, snarled in annoyance as she pulled the pins from her hair and tossed them onto her dressertop. That damn driver of hers just _had _to stop for those carolers instead of honking his horn at them for blocking the road.

Fortunately for him, he'd still gotten her home before sunset. Demona would have hated transforming while she was still in the car, mainly because then she'd need to force the driver to go somewhere secluded, kill him, find some way to dispose of both him and the vehicle, _and _find some random Nightstone employee with a record to take the rap for it and keep police and press from her doorstep.

She already had plenty to do. After she finished changing, she placed a call to a nearby Chinese restaurant, one of the places she knew would still be open. When the food arrived, she paused from her work to handle the delivery in her customary fashion, by slipping an envelope of money out through a slot in the front door. Her tip was allowing the young man to leave the property with his life.

That done, she went back to the living room, eating dinner as she continued to pore over the files for her meeting with the R and D staff that would take place after Christmas. She would much rather have been poring over a 13th Century tome she'd recently acquired from Mongolia, but she needed to bring herself up to speed on Sevarius's research. There were a few projects he had cooking that might help her recover from the DI-7 debacle.

Finally, even the immortal gargoyle became bored with the scientific terms. She snapped the folio shut, poured another glass of wine and turned on the television, disgusted to find that the business news had been pre-empted for yet another showing of some Christmas movie whose name Demona cared not to remember.

"Please, Clarence!" pleaded the black and white figure on the monitor, tears brimming in his eyes. "I want to live again." Demona watched with contempt, the lo mien in her stomach practically backing up on her as she prepared to change the channel. She'd stumbled across this in some year past, and since then, every time Demona happened upon it at Christmas, she hoped that the human would follow through on his suicide plans. But, the film always disappointed.

She raised the remote, preparing to find some channel that would give her news. "You know," a familiar voice spoke from behind. "Much as I like this movie, a part of me deep down inside wonders if George buying a gun and shooting that bastard Potter would have made for a better ending."

Demona immediately leapt from the couch and pivoted lightly on her feet, wings unfurled to their full, impressive span, her eyes a smoldering crimson. Puck hovered in the living room doorway, leaning casually against the frame, clad in the standard raiment he'd worn in Oberon's court, with one tiny alteration: a floppy red Santa Claus hat was perched atop his head. Framed by his pointed ears, it made him look very much like a worker in Santa's shop.

The trickster seemed to take no notice of his host's aggravated mood, instead watching as the movie on the television reached its happy conclusion. As he listened to the joyous crowd on the screen launch into "Hark, the Herald Angels Sing," he couldn't help but smirk. "That reminds me, did I ever tell you I met Christ once?" he said. "He was, or is, the offspring of a union between a human and a member of my race, and he does live on Avalon, _and_ his demeanor is a lot like the way it's depicted in the Bible. But even he's amused by this holiday, mostly because he told me those guys who wrote about him fudged a lot of details. I told him not to sweat it, everything gets lost in translation."

"How did you get in here?" roared Demona, practically ready to lunge. "I placed several magical wards around the edges of this property to keep you and your troublemaking kin out of my life!" Demona had done this not long after Puck had placed his hex on her. After that night, she'd decided that she wanted as few dealings with Oberon's minions as possible.

"How did I get in here?" Puck echoed the question, an amused smile on his face. "That's a very good question, Demona, one that deserves an answer." For a moment, Demona stood there expectantly, arms folded across her breast, tail lashing along the ground in agitation. After a tense period of silence, Puck gave a nod and zipped past Demona, snatching the wine bottle off the coffee table. In the blink of an eye, he was hovering in the doorway again, and took a little swig of the deep red liquid directly from the bottle.

"Good year," he mused silently to himself. Then, turning back to Demona, he said: "Yes, that question definitely does deserve an answer. Yes ma'am, it does. Oh boy howdy, does it ever…"

Demona, now convinced that Puck was not going to give her the answer she wanted, started to edge towards the alcove alongside her fireplace, where the iron poker rested in its stand. "Well, if you're not going to give me the answer willingly," she muttered. "I'll force it out of you."

Puck seemed to take no notice of the danger he was in. Instead, he regarded the remains of Demona's supper, which rested on the table in the form of several empty cartons. "Hmm, interesting choice for Christmas dinner," he said as he did a few flips in mid-air. "I'm actually a little surprised and disappointed that you're not eating gruel, Miss Ebenezer. I mean, they both have mystery meat, but I think gruel would still be more nourishing. And far more befitting of your mood, wouldn't you agree?"

Demona had almost closed the distance between herself and the fireplace, her back turned to Puck, when she heard a loud zipping noise. She spun around, and saw Puck floating in front of her face once more. "You got any kumquats?" he asked the irate gargoyle. "Mind if I take a look?"

With that, he zipped from the room without waiting for an answer. Demona growled in frustration, snatched the poker off its stand and dashed after him with an idea of where he would be going. Sure enough, she found him down the hallway in the kitchen, standing before the open refrigerator. His eyes skimmed across the shelves, clearly dismayed at their contents.

"No veggies?" he asked his host, plucking the cap from atop his flowing white hair to scratch at his scalp. "Don't you know how bad that is for you? Fresh veggies contain iron. Which doesn't mean much to me, but can do wonders for _your _energy level, my dear."

He grinned devilishly as he took a kielbasa from one of the shelves and waved it in front of his face. "Ah, well, I don't blame you for stocking so much meat. After all, you have been alone for the past thousand years and when you finally met your mate again, the two of you never even got to consummate your reunion. Guess you should have held off trying to kill him for just a teensy bit longer. Hah! Longer! Get it?" Puck snapped the air in front of him with the kielbasa for emphasis.

The phallic joke turned out to be more than Demona could stand. "_GET OUT OF MY HOUSE, YOU OBNOXIOUS LITTLE VERMIN!" _she roared as she charged Puck, brandishing the poker wildly. Puck stepped aside from Demona's path at the last second, making the azure gargoyle crash face-first into the shelves of her still open refrigerator.

The red faded from her vision momentarily as she got a face-full of her catering service's chicken croquettes. Not even pausing to wipe the gravy from her face and tiara, her eyes flared again and she swung blindly with the poker. With each swing, she was rewarded with the sound of shattering glass and ceramic, and the splintering of wood. Puck dodged each of her blows easily, the expression on his face suggesting that he thought this was all some wonderful new game his reluctant host had devised.

Twenty minutes later, Demona's kitchen, which was normally the coziest room in her otherwise Spartan residence, looked more like a war zone. The shattered remains of dishes and furniture littered the checkerboard-tiled floor and countertop. Stains from all manner of food and condiments spattered the walls. In the midst of it, Demona crouched on the floor on her hands and knees, chest heaving, the muscles in her powerful limbs shaking from exertion. The poker was still clenched in her talons, but she no longer possessed much energy to wield it.

Hovering cautiously above her, Puck surveyed the chaos with a look of utter delight on his face. "That was fun!" he cried raucously. "We have _got _to do this with more players next time! You wanna help me organize a tournament? I'll make the T-Shirts, you can over-inflate the prices on tickets and beer!"

Demona trembled with a mixture of rage and fatigue. "Please," she spoke in a tired whisper, not bothering to look up at the trickster. "Just leave me alone."

All at once, his expression turned serious. "Sorry, not until I do what I came here for. I'd love to play more, but as my fearless leader is so fond of saying, time is money. So, down to business." He moved into a sitting position in mid-air, crossing his legs and arms like a psychiatrist. To anyone but Demona, he might have looked comical. "You know, Demona, we're not that different, you and I."

Slowly, Demona stood, made her way to the one piece of furniture still intact in the room: a wooden chair that, like an old bomb shelter, had somehow survived the devastation around it. She gave an exhausted sigh as she plunked her shapely frame into it. She found a dishrag lying in arm's reach and grabbed it, taking a moment to compose herself as she used it to wipe partially-congealed food from her face and arms. "We are nothing alike," she scowled.

"Not completely true," Puck argued. "We do have one very important thing in common: we're both outcasts. Me, I've been kicked out a place where it's always summer, and I'm probably banned until the end of time. And you, well even if you did turn into the Empress of Nice overnight, I doubt even Angela would start trusting you until she was…" Puck began rapidly ticking off his fingertips, pausing after a moment to declare the answer. "…One-hundred and three! In human years, I mean. Heck, maybe even gargoyle!"

Demona growled, and straightened herself in the chair. Already, she hated where this was going. "I didn't want any of that! I tried to reason with them to get them to see the truth, I really did. I never wanted to hurt…"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Puck interjected. "I've seen this movie before. No offense, hon, but I gave it one and a half stars the first time I saw it. The thing I came here to tell you is that I accepted what happened to me, and things couldn't be better. True, I have regrets. But every time I feel one, I just look at Xanatos's kid. Smart as a whip, that boy, and he's barely out of his diapers. I couldn't ask for a better protégé. Or a better job, for that matter."

Demona swatted at Puck in annoyance, but as usual, the trickster zipped out of harm's way just in time. Scowling, the gargoyle finally threw the poker to the ground. "So what then, Puck? Are you going to bore me to tears trying to convince me that it's a wonderful life?"

Puck smiled and shook his head, the white bobble on his cap swaying from side to side. "No one would like that more than me, hon, but there's this pesky little decree from Lord Oberon that's limiting the use of my power these days. Heck, it's a miracle I haven't been spanked by him yet just for floating here chatting with you. Maybe if I could find a way to turn it into a lesson for Alexander, but I don't think he's quite ready to meet someone with your colorful background. But fortunately for both of us, I have some friends who owe me a favor. They'll be the ones boring you to tears about how precious life is. And honestly, one of them is so boring you'll be wishing it was me giving you the lecture. I mean, Future could give _Preston Vogel _lessons on being wooden."

Puck stopped there when he realized that Demona's glare was turning slightly quizzical. "But perhaps I say too much. Anyway, my friends will be dropping by later on, the first one probably a short while after midnight. I can't really say for sure, though. You know as well as I that punctuality is not a trickster's strong suit. You'd do good to listen to them when they do come. Maybe then, you could finally try doing what I've done, and taking what life gives you with a smile."

With that, Puck swept the cap from his head and gave a theatrical bow. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm supposed to be at Grandpa X's in Maine right now with Mr. and Mrs. X, and the kid. We're having pheasant this year! Well, see ya. Oh, and don't forget to work on that serve, Demona." Puck re-donned his cap and started to spin around in mid-air, vanishing from the room a split second later.

For a moment, Demona just sat there. Her heart had stopped racing from the excitement a moment ago, but her blood still boiled beneath her sapphire skin. She growled in the back of her throat as she surveyed the ravaged kitchen. Pity the cleaning service would be closed all day tomorrow. She might actually have to do this herself.

Finally, Demona got up, shut the door to the fridge, and went back to the living room to pour herself another drink. She would check the wards around her house later, but for now, all she wanted was to banish the memory of her most recent meeting with the trickster.

One hour past midnight found Demona immersed in a fitful sleep. After finishing her glass of wine, she'd rechecked the wards surrounding the property and found them untampered with. So she took a few minutes to strengthen their magical aura, even though she was still physically tired from her altercation with Puck, and the spellcasting exhausted her further.

When it was done, she went upstairs to grab a hot shower, hoping it would both relax her and wash away the last remnants of food still clinging to her hair and wings. Now she was in bed, and even though her sleep was blessedly dreamless, Demona still tossed and turned from one side of the mattress to the other.

During one of the moments when she hovered between wakefulness and unconsciousness, Demona thought she smelled the presence of another in the room. Someone standing in the corner of her chamber, close to the bed, just standing and watching. Beneath the silk sheets, Demona moved her hand slowly underneath the pillow resting alongside her head until she felt her talons close around the handle of the compact laser rifle she kept there.

Once she held the gun, she came suddenly awake and sat bolt upright in bed, one hand holding the sheets to cover her bare body as the other swung the rifle out in front of her, aiming its barrel directly at the intruder. Demona gave a feral growl and flashed her fangs… at herself.

The light faded from the immortal's eyes, and for a moment she sat there, stunned. The being that stood before her, regarding her with a curious look, was her exact mirror image, right down to the jewelry.

No. Not completely a reflection, the gargoyle realized. Although Demona was well over a thousand years old, the enchantment placed on her by the Weird Sisters meant that biologically, she was forever a gargoyle in her mid-thirties.

The copy of Demona who stood by the bed looked to be about fifteen or twenty years younger than that, an adolescent in a gargoyle's age. But there was something else about her. Demona peered closer, and found that the jade eyes of her double still bore the innocence of her youth, that Demona had thought lost forever, reflected beneath their sparkling green surfaces. Eyes that did not tell the story of a millennium of solitude, of pain, of bitterness, sustained only by hatred and revenge.

Demona blinked rapidly and glanced down at the feet of her doppelganger. Its eyes, filled with everything Demona had lost through the centuries, were making her uncomfortable.

Her younger self pointed a talon at the gun in Demona's hand. "Don't you realize how dangerous that is?" She asked, sincere concern in her voice. "Although, I suppose that when you can't be killed, except by one man, accidents should not worry you." The figure shrugged, dismissing the thought almost as quickly as it had come to her.

"Who are you?" Demona snapped. Already, her bafflement was melting into anger that someone had invaded the most private room in her house.

"I'm your past," the younger-looking Demona explained as she folded her wings about herself. "Well, not literally, but the past _is _an area I happen to specialize in. I'm currently borrowing this form, because I thought that it would remind you of things that you're trying to forget. Which is beneficial, given why I am here."

Demona clenched her fangs and pulled the sheets up higher around herself, though her gun remained fixed on the changeling. "You're one of Puck's friends, then?" She spit the words out icily. "Show me your true form!"

The younger version of herself shook her head. "I am of the Puck's race, you are correct. And like my kin, I can take almost any face. But I am different from them in that they actually have a form that they exist in from their moment of creation. It's a little difficult to explain, actually, but see if this helps a little. When Queen Titania is not Anastasia Renard, she is Titania. When Puck is not Owen Burnett, he is Puck. The Third Race can assume many such forms, but always there is one form which represents who they really are. I have no such default. I am what is known as a _true_shapeshifter."

Demona nodded, though her look of annoyance still did not fade. "I understand what you mean. But I don't think you understand _me_. If you have no true form, at least assume something else. I don't like the form you're in now!"

The being that looked like Demona moved to the foot of the bed, and picked Demona's evening ensemble of halter and loincloth off the floor where the gargoyle had dropped them. "As if you would like me more if I were something else? Besides, I told you, I am assuming this form because I am trying to help you. And it certainly is more pleasing than some other shapes I have taken." For a moment, the innocence dropped from its eyes and it tugged at the edges of its own halter. "Amazing how your species is able to defy gravity. How _do_ you do it?"

The glow returned to Demona's eyes and she bared her fangs once more. Yes, this was definitely a friend of Puck's. And as such, Demona had no more love for it than she did for Xanatos's assistant. She sat up straighter in the bed, and fired several shots from her rifle at the being.

The fay, far from looking alarmed, simply waved its free hand as the shots streaked towards it. A glowing field of energy leapt up a few inches from its face, catching the laser blasts and dissipating them into harmless fragments that scorched the surrounding carpeting and walls.

"You still think everything can be solved with violence?" The being posing as Demona shook its head sadly. It waved its hand again, and suddenly, the gun in Demona's talons became very hot, far too hot to touch. Demona cried out in pain and alarm as she flung the weapon across the bedroom.

"You didn't always think that way, you know," said the shapeshifter as it levitated Demona's clothing in the air before it. It gave a slight nudge with its talons, and the scraps of cloth flew across the bed, landing in Demona's still-throbbing palms.

"There was a time when you believed in something more pure, actually," the shapeshifter continued. "I mean, you _were _apprentice to the Archmage, and that involved its share of underhandedness, but you never allowed it to consume you at your very core."

The being nodded its head at the clothing it had passed to Demona. "Now, get dressed. We're going on a trip. Unless you want to go outside as you are." It smirked and then turned its back to Demona, allowing the enraged gargoyle a slight modicum of privacy.

For a moment, Demona sat there, trying to think of what else she might use against this creature. With its back exposed, it did present a target. Demona still wore her jewelry, but that was not made of iron. The fireplace poker was downstairs where she'd left it, and aside from the laser rifle smoldering on the other side of the room, she had no immediate armaments. Not even a vellum through which to channel an incantation.

Finally, she gave a resigned sigh, stepped out of the bed, and started to pull on her clothes, never taking her eyes off the changeling's back. "No, I don't think so," Demona growled as she finished tightening her belt. "I've suffered quite enough indignity already, thank you."

For a moment, the trickster thought about mentioning that Demona's evening-wear left little to the imagination anyway. But its self-control was better than Puck's, back in the days before Puck's banishment. The shapeshifter's demeanor turned serious again, the innocent light back in its faux-gargoyle eyes. "It was something you need not have suffered, if you had just controlled your temper. But denial is still your strongest suit."

The being moved over to one of the large windows and threw it open. It was still snowing outside. A few errant flakes drifted in on the breeze. But as always when she was in gargoyle form, Demona did not even feel the cold. "Spare me your sermon," Demona scowled at the trickster. "I'm only entertaining your stupid little games because I have no other weapons to use on you at the moment. I have a feeling that the sooner I cooperate with you, the sooner you will get out of here and leave me in peace."

The shapeshifter looked amused for a moment. "Peace is something I doubt you are familiar with anymore, but I promise: if you come with me, and see what I want to show you, I will never bother you again."

"Fine," Demona spat at the shapeshifter. With that, the true gargoyle and the false both leapt from the open window, catching a breeze and gliding off into the sparkling winter night.

Even at this late hour, the city below still radiated a myriad variety of soft pastel colors. Multi-colored Christmas lights were draped across terraces and inside store windows, and other bright, festive decorations seemed to fill every nook and cranny of the already crowded city.

Demona flew slightly behind her younger self, who seemed to be engrossed in the holiday spirit radiating upward from the normally frantic city streets. Almost too engrossed…

Demona smiled slyly, shifting her position on the current so she was gliding just behind her faux self, perfectly aligned with its back. She curled the talons on both hands into hooks, preparing to strike.

Suddenly, without warning, the shapeshifter veered off to the left at a precise perpendicular angle. Demona turned her head for a moment, wondering at its change in direction. Too late, she realized that it had altered its course to avoid hitting the side of a building. Demona struck the vertical brick surface with an ugly smack, and plummeted several feet onto a terrace below, where she became tangled unceremoniously in a patio umbrella.

"Ah, ah, ah," the shapeshifter admonished as it hovered a few feet above the terrace, waving a single talon back and forth. "I told you, we have a schedule to keep. These attempts to incapacitate me will only create delays, which means that it will take you longer to get back home."

Demona roared as she tore the umbrella to shreds, finally freeing herself. She then leapt onto the railing of the terrace and balanced there for a moment. "If I had my way, I would kill you_ very_ slowly," she grumbled.

For a moment, the trickster looked like it would say something else. Then, the innocence that Demona did not like seeing returned to its eyes. "Come along, Demona," she said curtly. "We have a lot to see. A thousand years is a very long time, as mortals reckon, after all." So saying, it began flying towards the distant shape of the Empire State Building, lit up red and green against the night.

Demona leapt from the railing and glided after the shapeshifter. But as she trailed behind, she thought she noticed the brightly-lit building before her start to shimmer. Even the snowflakes that drifted past her vision seemed to take on that same ethereal quality, like they were bending in and out of reality. The skyline of Manhattan started to twirl, and Demona shut her eyes against it, but even that did nothing to quell the hazy, disorienting sensation that swam through her body.

She continued to glide forward even as her eyes were shut, although her wings began to feel very heavy, like she were gliding directly into a hurricane-force gale. Despite the fact that it felt like she were being shoved violently into reverse, her wings somehow managed to carry her forward with little effort. Finally, after an endless minute, Demona summoned enough curiosity to open her eyes again…

She looked around in awe. Where once it had been early Christmas morning in Manhattan, suddenly the air around her felt slightly warmer, as that of an early autumn. Also, the glass and concrete cityscape was gone, replaced by a sprawling forest that smelled strangely familiar.

Demona cast her eyes to the horizon, and saw the deep darkness of the ocean glittering in the moonlight. But as she looked towards the sea, all her attention immediately became drawn to what she saw resting on the clifftops in front of the dark waters.

Castle Wyvern. Her old home. Even from here, the braziers could be seen flickering in the windows. But that was impossible. The castle hadn't been lived in since that night she'd lost everything to human treachery, and even then it would be a thousand years before Xanatos made it his base of operations. For that matter, what was it doing back in Scotland? Unless…

"I know what you're thinking," the trickster, gliding slightly to the left of her, declared. "No, we haven't gone back in time. This is merely a shadow of what was, created from your memories. We cannot interact with anyone in it. All we can do is watch."

Demona blinked rapidly, still trying to figure out how she could be seeing her old life on the clifftops of Scotland. Not even one as versed in magic as her could think that such a thing was possible. "How…?" she breathed.

"It's complicated," said the shapeshifter. "And besides, I don't have time to explain it now. We must hurry, or we'll miss the wedding."

"Wedding?" Demona echoed.

"Prince Malcolm's," explained her double, already picking up speed as it glided towards the castle. Demona shook her head, still in a daze, and did her best to follow. A few moments later, she arrived at the battlements of the castle to find her shadow already standing there, its wings caped. Demona landed next to it and followed suit.

"Right on schedule," the shapeshifter declared as it looked around. "Such a lovely home. I can see why one would want it all for their clan."

Demona barely heard its words. Her mind was still trying to make sense of what was happening. The wind through her hair, the sound of owls in the distant forest, the feel of the stones beneath her taloned feet, the smell of the wild game that was roasting in the kitchens for the wedding feast… it couldn't be real, but at the same time, it felt real.

Demona nearly jumped in surprise when a stocky gray gargoyle marched past her, its mind occupied on its patrol of the battlements. She _knew_him. In her younger days, he had attempted to teach her how to play chess, but Demona had usually managed to find excuses to avoid learning some silly human game.

"Rookery brother!" Demona called after him, but he continued on his path, not even acknowledging that he had heard her.

"I told you," the shapeshifter spoke up behind her. "This is but a shadow. It may feel real, but I assure you, it is not. We cannot interact with anything."

Demona sighed wistfully as the gray gargoyle rounded the corner and disappeared from view. She almost didn't notice as the changeling gently laid a hand on her shoulder.

"Come, Demona," said her fay guide. "What we're here to see is this way." Demona turned, and saw the shapeshifter walking towards the far end of the battlements. Demona followed cautiously, her mind still trying to cope with everything she was seeing. Faces of those long dead were all around her. But her doppelganger seemed to be focused on only one pair. It was peering over the wall, across the courtyard to one of the chapel windows.

Demona came up alongside it, following its gaze. Standing in the archway of one window, she spotted two gargoyles. She did not need a closer look, she already knew that they were herself and Goliath.

Then she _was_ seeing the year 975. A moment later, this suspicion was confirmed when she heard the self in her memory illusion speaking to her former love.

"Take this token of my love," the memory-Demona spoke, its voice containing none of the bitterness that it would eventually come to possess. "Cherish it always, as I will cherish my half. Upon this, I pledge my heart to you forever."

For a moment, every sight, sound, and smell of her old home seemed to fade into the background as Demona watched the scene she knew too well play out before her. Her teenage self offered half of the Phoenix Gate to the memory-Goliath, who accepted it gladly.

"I accept your token, my Angel of the Night," Goliath spoke softly as he wrapped his then-beloved in the warm embrace of his wings. "And vow that you and I are one…"

"Now and forever," Demona whispered from her vantage point on the battlements, finishing the line that she'd heard so often in her dreams during the long millennium of loneliness she'd spent waiting for the castle to rise above the clouds. She didn't dream of Goliath so much anymore. Ah, well. What did it matter? He'd ended it, not her.

"That was beautiful," the shapeshifter spoke beside her, suppressing a mock-tear. "I never knew you could be so poetic. Whatever happened to that side of you, anyway? Oh, I think I remember. It was about twenty years after this."

Demona knew where this was heading, and she didn't like it. The joyful reminiscence of the night of Prince Malcolm's wedding dissipated rapidly. "No!" she snapped at the changeling. "Don't take me there! Please…"

The faux-gargoyle shook its head sadly. "I'm afraid I can't change what you see. These are _your _memories, Demona. You created them. Like it or not, they are a part of you."

Demona growled low in her throat and dropped into a fighting stance, tail raised off the ground in a defensive posture. "I am _trying _to ask you politely."

"And I appreciate that," said her double. For a moment, the two eyed each other warily. Then, the shapeshifter snapped its talons, and the scenery around them changed instantly.

The sky over their heads turned from a peaceful shade of midnight to a smoldering, blood-red hue, a battle sky stained by the smoke from many fires. The masonry beneath their feet became cracked in odd places, battered by a recent siege. Chunks of debris littered both the battlements and the courtyard below.

Some of it was pieces of the walls, knocked loose by the sacking it had suffered at the hands of the Vikings. But it only took Demona an instant of horror to realize that most of the debris was the fragments of her dead clan. Once proud warriors who were living and breathing, they now lay scattered unceremoniously as piles of rubble. The sadistic changeling had done it. It was making her relive the night of the massacre.

"NOOOOOOO!!" From the far wall, a cry suddenly resounded from the highest parapets to the depths of the cellars, cutting through Demona's heart like a dagger of ice. Though she knew what had caused it, she dashed around the battlements to the opposite side of the wall, where the source of the cry waited. There, she saw the memory image of herself, crouched among the remains of her fallen rookery kin, weeping bitterly.

Demona felt a tear forming in the corner of her eye. She clenched her eyelids shut, fighting to keep it in. Centuries of discipline helped her to succeed. After a moment, she reopened her eyes, only to find the shapeshifter standing next to her.

"I'm sorry, Demona," it said, its voice heavy. "I wish I could have shown you something more pleasant. But you, more than anyone, should know that history cannot be changed."

Demona fought hard to keep another tear at bay as she eyed her reflection coldly. "Get me out of here," she rasped. _"NOW."_

"Very well," the being that took her form said with a nod. "But first, we need to jump forward a bit. You already know how Goliath and Hudson returned, about how you fled the castle, planning to come back a few hours later, to tell your mate that you had gone out looking for him."

"I don't need to be reminded of this," snarled Demona, practically ready to lose it. "I lived it. And for making me live it again, someday I vow that I will make you suffer for your insult."

The changeling sighed. "I'm starting to get the feeling that the things I'll show you won't do much to improve you. But, I do owe the Puck a favor. Just remember that, will you, should you ever come looking for revenge. I didn't volunteer for this. Frankly, I can think of better ways to spend the holiday." The being shrugged, and then snapped its talons again.

Instantly, the fires in the castle started to burn lower. Much of the crimson haze cleared from the starry sky overhead. The moon changed position in less time than it took to blink. The memory image of Demona sobbing her heart out amidst the dead vanished, only to reappear a short distance away on the parapet.

As Demona turned her gaze, she realized her memory-self was looking up in horror at something perched on the flagstones. Demona glanced up as well, though she remembered what was causing her memory image's look of dread. The statue of her mate, turned into stone by night now as well as day, sat in a pose of brooding contemplation.

Fresh tears brimmed in the eyes of her memory-self, nearly causing Demona to release one as well. Angrily she whirled about, grabbing her double with both hands and slamming it against the stone wall.

"You sadistic witch!" she yelled at it. "Stop torturing me! I already told you I don't need to be reminded of this!"

"Don't get angry at me, Demona," said the changeling. Much to Demona's alarm, its voice was not defensive, but rather it was soft, almost piteous. "I told you, I can only show you what you yourself created. Deny it all you like, but everything we've seen so far is a part of you. My magic can only conjure the shadows of what _was_, and these things did happen. Not even threatening me will change that."

Demona's lip curled angrily, but she still relaxed her grip on the shapeshifter. Cautiously, the being removed Demona's hands from its shoulders and straightened itself out. "Now watch," it said, pointing back to the memory-Demona on the parapet. "I don't want you to miss this next part."

But Demona did not want to watch. There was no need for her to turn her head. She knew what was coming. Sure enough, she then heard herself cry out: "What have I… what have _THEY _done to you?!" Demona did not even turn around to see her memory image climb to the flagstones to touch its lips against the cold, lifeless face of her imprisoned lover.

Demona sighed, remembering in vivid detail the tear that had fallen onto Goliath's stone form. It was the last she would shed for many a year. The Demona doppelganger was leaning against the wall behind it now, talons hooked into its belt, casually watching the scene play out.

"Yes, I remember this," Demona told the changeling. "But so what? I was right when I said that the humans did this to him. Murdering us in our sleep wasn't good enough for them. Then they needed to curse those who survived and steal our children!"

"Really?" the fay posing as Demona replied, amusement starting to creep into its voice. "Well, you had no way of knowing this, since I doubt that even after you got your talons on the Grimorum you even bothered to read the Magus's account, but Goliath _asked _to be put under the spell. The Magus had already cursed the other survivors, thinking the Princess to be dead. Between them, the rest of his charges, and his 'Angel of the Night,' Goliath thought he had lost everything. He didn't feel like living anymore. Of course, you had no way of knowing this. You were busy trying to keep suspicion from yourself."

Demona snorted, unwilling to face another lecture on morality. "Please. I'm familiar with the fabrication written down by that pathetic excuse for a sorcerer! He was simply trying to make himself sound like less of a villain by pretending to be sorry, no doubt to try and elicit sympathy from anyone reading the story. His account might actually have made me laugh had he not been such a sniveling little foot-licker! Frankly, I was overjoyed when I found out from Angela what had happened to him."

The changeling nodded. "Yes. We all know how well _that_ conversation went. But we'll explore that later. True, this was a bad night for you, but fortunately, you soon learned to find something else to love." So saying, it gave another signature snap of its talons, and the scenery around them changed again.

Demona was then shown several more scenes from her life in rapid succession: the wounding of a young boy that the shapeshifter thought to be very significant for some reason, but Demona seemed to have little recollection of; her meeting and eventual alliance with the Scottish noble, Macbeth; their covenant that eternally bound one to the other; Macbeth's succession to the throne of Scotland, and his appointment of Demona as primary advisor.

In truth, Demona had usually remembered the times of Macbeth's rule, before his betrayal, fondly. The remnants of gargoyle clans from all over Scotland had assembled beneath the banner of Moray, and were thriving under Demona's leadership. But the shapeshifter had assured her that what they saw was mostly preliminary, meant to lead up to a very significant night.

Finally, the pair found themselves standing atop Castle Moray, where a gray-haired man with roughly-chiseled features stood expectantly by the edge of the ramparts. Demona knew who it was a memory image of, and she also had a feeling she knew what was to come.

Sure enough, a moment later, a familiar figure glided out of the mists, red hair streaming behind it like a blazing fire, and landed atop one of the stone turrets. Macbeth turned eagerly to face his ally.

"Macbeth!" the memory image of Demona called as it alighted upon the turret.

"The Hunter is defeated?" the Scottish monarch asked memory-Demona, an eager edge to his voice.

Memory-Demona smiled warmly as she leapt to the cobbled ground of the ramparts and grasped her ally on the shoulders. "Not this night, but soon, Macbeth!" Laughter danced in her voice as she lifted the old king bodily off the ground and spun him around in the air. "Together we will triumph!"

For a moment, Demona regarded herself in 1057 like she was regarding a stranger. There was a lightness to its step, a sense of excitement that seemed to radiate like electricity from its wingtips. The next time Demona would feel as giddy as a hatchling would be the night in 1994 when she met Goliath again, and she only hoped that her guide would not take her there.

"Hey! Leave off!" Macbeth chided her memory image with a slight laugh, though from the lines on his brow, one could tell he looked preoccupied by something. "I have business to attend," he explained as memory-Demona set him back down on the stones.

"My lady," he bowed curtly to her, and proceeded inside.

Demona watched her 1057 self watch Macbeth leave, and then she turned to face the changeling. "If you're about to accuse me of something else, you're wasting your breath," she told her double. "Goliath and his brainwashed rabble blame me for the Wyvern massacre, and are too blind to see the truth. That doesn't bother me. Much. Fools are fools, after all. But if you're about to prattle on about Macbeth being some great and noble human who was wronged by a sinister bitch of a gargoyle, I'll have you know that I was _right _to break all ties with him. It would have been suicide to stay here."

The whole time the being had been listening to Demona's tirade, an amused light was growing in its eyes. "Would it, now?" she asked. "We all know how great the alternative worked out."

Immediately, the fires leapt into Demona's eyes. "No! Don't you _dare_ show me that!"

"Don't worry," said the changeling. "You're getting a reprieve. For now. There's something else we need to see first." So saying, it snapped its talons, and instantly, both it and Demona found themselves in Castle Moray's Great Hall, where Macbeth was holding council with his father-in-law and son. Lulach sat at the table while Macbeth stood close by, casting an annoyed look at Bodhe.

"What have you to tell me that Demona cannot hear, Bodhe?" Macbeth asked his elder. "Quickly, before Lulach leaves to gather reinforcements."

Bodhe began to explain the benefits of Macbeth breaking his alliance with the gargoyles to appease the English, but Demona was hardly listening. She'd already heard this before. If anything, it proved she was right.

"You see?" Demona triumphantly gloated to her doppelganger, which had seated itself at the opposite end of the table to Lulach, and was engrossed in the conversation. "I heard it myself. Macbeth was going to betray me! Me and all of my kind. I did what I had to do!"

Now it was the shapeshifter's turn to be annoyed. She turned her head slightly and sighed. "You were eavesdropping on this conversation, yes, but not all of it. You missed a very important thing because you were so sure of yourself."

"Don't patronize me!" Demona growled. "I was there! I know what I heard."

The shapeshifter raised a talon to it lips. "Be quiet, Demona," it snapped in a commanding voice. Then it gestured at the three humans who were arguing nearby. "_Watch_."

A gloved fist angrily pounded the tabletop just as the shapeshifter finished speaking. "Father, why are you listening to this?" Lulach was protesting as he rose from his seat. "The gargoyles fought with great courage! We might not have won this night, but neither did we lose. To betray them…"

Sternly, Macbeth placed both hands on his son's shoulders, silencing him. "A wise king considers all his options, Lulach," he said with a firm, yet loving tone. "And then makes his choice."

Lulach seemed ready to disagree, but there was a look in his father's eyes like the man knew what he was doing. So he simply gave a slight bow of his head, and left the hall.

For a few moments after the prince had gone, both Macbeth and Bodhe stood there in silence. Then, Macbeth turned to the older man. "Now then, Bodhe," he said. "I know you are concerned with the fate of this country, and of your family. Lord knows, so am I. It preys upon me day and night. But we are not going to forswear Demona and her kin. They've never been anything but brave and worthy allies. I certainly won't abandon them for the likes of the English."

From where she stood on the other side of the table, Demona's mouth drifted towards the floor. He was defending her? This couldn't be.

"The price of peace is always high, Macbeth," his father-in-law persisted. "Would you rather it come from losing the gargoyles, or at the deaths of untold numbers of your own countrymen? Because if you don't consider ending your alliance with the gargoyles, that's what the cost will be."

Macbeth shook his head and laid a hand gently on the old man's shoulder. "There's no honor in selling out our allies just to save our own hides, Bodhe," he said. "Besides, seventeen years ago I made a promise to Demona that I would keep her and the other gargoyles safe. I will not go back on my word."

"Be reasonable, Macbeth…" Bodhe began, but stopped when he saw the monarch's eyes narrow. The hand on his bony shoulder became a bit more firm.

"I have made my decision, old man," Macbeth snapped. "The matter is now closed. You will speak no more of it to anyone. Do I make myself clear?"

For a moment Bodhe stood there, the arguments hovering on the tip of his tongue. But finally, the weakness in his own heart won out over any other desire to press his point. He took a step back from Macbeth, bowed his head towards the floor. "Aye, my lord," he grumbled, and then stalked from the hall.

Throughout their entire conversation, Demona had not closed her mouth once. It still hung open as her mind grappled with the shock of what she'd just heard. Could this really be true? She looked at her doppelganger, who sat there in silence, watching as the memory image of Macbeth took a seat at the table and refilled his wine goblet.

The sight of Oberon's subject made suspicion creep into her once again. She had never _heard_ Macbeth say this. She remembered vividly what happened that night: Macbeth had taken the advice of that silly old human, to destroy her and her clan. Right after hearing that, she'd gone off in order to notify her lieutenants of her change in plans.

"This never happened," she whispered to herself, just loud enough for the shapeshifter to hear. Her mirror image looked up at the gargoyle curiously.

Demona glanced down at it and folded her arms across her breast. "This never happened," she declared more firmly. "I never heard Macbeth say this. This is just a lie you've concocted to try and make it look like _I _was the villain. This is certainly a low blow, changeling, even for one of your conniving race."

The shapeshifter shook its head, slowly rising to its feet. "I'm not saying that you're a villain, Demona. Just remember that you didn't hear all of the conversation, you simply heard exactly what you wanted to, and then left. But whether you choose to believe what you just saw or not, at least consider this: in seventeen years, did Macbeth ever smash a sleeping gargoyle under his banner? In all the nights that you and your kin took part in matters of state, did he ever dismiss your advice just because of your race?

"Princess Katherine wouldn't even let you in the dining hall, and Macbeth invited you and yours to dine at the same table as himself and the highest-ranking human advisors in his court. He even saved your life twice."

The second Demona heard that, she knew that the shapeshifter was lying. "Once, changeling! Macbeth only saved my life once. And that was simply to repay a favor that I now regret rendering."

"You're wrong," insisted her doppelganger. "You weren't awake for the second time, but King Duncan found your hiding place in the cavern not far from Moray, while you and your clan were asleep in stone. Duncan wanted to destroy you right then and there, but Macbeth stopped him."

"Another lie!" growled Demona, bringing her talons down hard on the tabletop. The image of Macbeth, seated down at the other end, continued to stare at the fire with goblet in hand, taking no notice.

The changeling shrugged. "All right. Say I am lying. But getting back to my original point. You already know how long yours and Macbeth's people managed to co-exist. But when you made a deal with Canmore, how long did it take him to slaughter your kin behind your back? Less than twenty-four hours, wasn't it?"

Demona already did not like where this was heading. Her eyes glowed threateningly as she tightened her grip on the edges of the table. "Even if what I just saw is true, it still changes nothing! The Captain of the Guard at Wyvern sang the same song as Macbeth, and he still let the Vikings destroy my clan! Macbeth's words might have been decent, but he too would have betrayed us, given enough time. Humans can never be trusted!"

Once again, the changeling adopted that amused look that Demona didn't like. "Sure. The deaths of the gargoyles at Wyvern were entirely the captain's fault. You just keep telling yourself that."

Demona growled and reared her wings to their full span. "_How dare you_," she hissed. "How dare you mock the death of my clan! Unlike Goliath, I actually tried to do what was best for them!"

The shapeshifter nodded, looking non-plussed. "And when you had leadership of your own clan, you tried to do the same thing. And again, it didn't work too well." Before Demona could react, the being waved a hand in front of its face in a circular fashion. Instantly, the hall of Castle Moray became enveloped in a cold mist that blocked everything from view.

After several tense seconds, the mist parted, or at least retreated several feet. When it did, both Demona and the shapeshifter found themselves standing in the clearing of a moonlit forest, the edges of which were shrouded in fog. More memory images were gathered not far away: Demona saw herself in 1057 standing a few feet from Gruoch, who was crouched over the slain form of her husband, the former king of Scotland.

"You fool!" Gruoch snapped at Demona's memory-image, her sparkling green eyes blurred with tears of grief and anger. "Macbeth did not betray you! Canmore did! _He_ destroyed your clan! You are the last of your treacherous kind!"

"You lie!" Memory-Demona hissed, the tips of her talons quivering in anticipation.

"See for yourself, then!" said Gruoch, showing no sign of fear at the wrath that stewed within the gargoyle. "Go and search for your kin. Search until you and your kind are but a nightmare memory!"

Demona watched her 1057 self, poised to strike at Gruoch, and felt like berating the memory image for not leaping at the old woman and tearing her to pieces. But the gargoyle did remember how the urgency in the former queen's words had struck a chord in her.

Memory-Demona gave Gruoch another growl, then brushed past her and left, racing off into the forest. Demona knew what she would find, and she also knew that her doppelganger would likely torture her with that next.

She whirled to face her tormenter. "I've already seen what you're going to show me next," Demona said, keeping her voice level through some miracle. "Please, don't make me see it again."

The changeling's expression had once more turned serious. That same innocent glint was in its eyes. For all intents and purposes, it was back in character. "You saw it," it said with a heavy sigh. "But I don't think you really _saw _it." So saying, it snapped its talons, and instantly both it and Demona were transported to another clearing in the forest.

The first thing Demona noticed were the crows that filled the night sky overhead both with their numbers and incessant cawing. Most of them seemed to be landing on a small hill that rested a few yards from where the two immortals stood. But Demona did not need a closer look to know that it was no hill.

The bodies of dozens of fallen gargoyles, slain by Canmore and his English allies, had been unceremoniously stacked in the forest clearing and left to rot. Occasionally, one of the many birds circling overhead would swoop down to peck ravenously at their flesh.

Not far from the mountain of slaughter crouched a familiar azure gargoyle, weeping as she'd not done since the massacre at Wyvern. Her face was buried in her talons, but tears still poured freely out from in between them to fall on the parched soil below.

For a brief moment, any animosity towards the shapeshifter was forgotten. Demona stepped up beside her memory image, her heart heavy. Even as she watched herself bawling, she felt a lump form in her throat. Her legs grew weak. A tear sprang into her eye, forcing its way to the surface. Reliving two massacres in one night proved too much for the normally disciplined immortal. She dropped meekly to her knees without a sound as tears began to run down her cheeks. She did not sob nor make any other noise, just knelt there, hands in her lap, and allowed her grief to flow out quietly.

The shapeshifter kept its distance, standing back on the edge of the clearing, letting Demona have her moment. From where it stood, it saw Demona reach out, and try to place a hand on the shoulder of her memory-image. Demona's talons passed through it as if it was not there, which only elicited a fresh wave of tears from the immortal gargoyle.

Finally, when it appeared that Demona had spent her sorrow for the time being, the shapeshifter stepped cautiously towards the gargoyle, who was still on her knees. "I am truly sorry, Demona," it said softly. "It seems that every time you try to do what you think is right, the ones that you care about always suffer for it."

Demona knelt on the ground, focusing on her memory-self, not wanting to face the accusatory stares from the dull, sightless eyes of her slain brethren, stacked close by. After a few more minutes, the 1057 Demona rose to its feet, its body still wracked by sobs. It walked numbly off into the woods, but Demona knew that it was going to gather wood for a funeral pyre. The thought of it made Demona's eyes brim with tears once more.

"The humans did this," Demona whispered.

"And just like Wyvern, who was the one who bargained with those humans?"

"This wasn't my fault. I was in a situation where I couldn't win. If Canmore hadn't destroyed them, Macbeth would have, in time. Maybe not this night, but someday. All humans are treacherous animals at heart. It is their nature."

The shapeshifter sighed. "I suppose hating every human in the world makes it easier for you to deny your own involvement in what happened." Once again, its tone was not lecturing, nor preachy, simply matter-of-fact. "Humans and gargoyles have more in common than you think. Both of them are capable of choosing between either good or evil, including that universal weakness: hatred."

A spark ignited in the back of Demona's brain upon hearing those words. She rose swiftly to her feet, her eyes ablaze even though her face was still damp with tears. Before the changeling could react, Demona's tail whipped along the ground, tripping it and sending it sprawling to the semi-frozen earth.

"_I WILL STAND FOR NO MORE OF YOUR LIES, CHANGELING!_" she roared at her doppelganger. "We are _NOTHING _like humans!Humans are weak, incompetent creatures who care only about themselves! If anything, what you've shown me tonight only proves how untrustworthy they are! And since you seem to delight in torturing me, perhaps it's time I returned the favor!"

So saying, she grabbed the fay by the hair, and dragged it roughly to its feet. With her talons still clenched around its scalp, Demona cocked her other hand back, balled into a fist, and cruelly drove it home into the center of the shapeshifter's face. She brought her fist back and then forward again several times, earning a moist crunch each time she connected. Her arm moved mechanically, pure rage coursing through her like an opiate as she battered her doppelganger's flesh. After she'd finished smashing its face almost to pulp, Demona flung it towards the edge of the clearing with all her strength, where its back slammed brutally against a tree trunk.

With a shrill cry that split the air like the howl of a damned soul, Demona charged at the shapeshifter's crumpled form. Despite the blood that flowed freely from its broken nose, and the bruises that were rapidly puffing its face and swelling one eye shut, the being's other eye was calm as it rose shakily to its feet. Demona was only a few paces from it, her talons ready to tear it open like a landed fish, when it calmly waved its hand.

All at once, Demona found herself frozen in place. Her arms were tensed in mid-strike, but she could no longer move them. She attempted to move her legs, but those too refused to obey her commands. For several minutes, she strained against the invisible bonds of magic that held her, to no avail. She realized that while she could still speak, and move her eyes and head, the rest of her was transfixed.

"_Release me, changeling!_" she screamed at it. The shapeshifter regarded her for a moment with its good eye, then spit blood from its mouth onto the ground at its feet.

"I'm afraid that I can't honor your request," it said.

"_RELEASE ME!_" Demona screamed again. Then, in a slightly calmer, though no less dangerous voice, she went on. "Release me, or I promise that I will make your death even more painful than it has to be. By the time I'm through with you, you will be _begging me_ to end your life!"

The shapeshifter stood there for another moment. Then, its form seemed to shimmer. The face of Demona that it had been wearing, bruised and bloodied now, faded away, to be replaced by a face that was pale and featureless. After a minute spent wearing the formless visage, it then re-assumed Demona's face, but all traces of the savage beating it had endured were erased.

It gave a weary sigh, as if the action of healing itself had taken something out of it, and then spoke. "You misunderstand me. I want to release you, but first I need to be sure that you will refrain from using more violence. It takes a great deal of concentration to maintain the illusion that you see all around you. If something were to break that concentration, such as an act of aggression against me, the illusion might fall apart too quickly and you'd be thrust back into normal reality at an unsafe pace. The consequences can be unpleasant, sometimes fatal. Now, even though I know it won't kill you, it might have some other nasty side effects. I doubt even the incantation of Puck or that of the Sisters would be able to completely restore you if you were to lose an arm, or a wing, or several appendages at once."

Demona pored over its words for a moment. She had tinkered in magic for most of her life, and was well aware of the hazards inherent in breaking a spellcaster's concentration. Her survival instinct was enough to bring her rage down by a few degrees, but the dangerous light did not leave her eyes. "I understand," she growled.

"No, I don't think you do," said the shapeshifter. "We still have a few more things we need to see, and we can't keep having these interruptions. I'm going to leave you like that for a while. You'll regain the use of your limbs when I think you're ready to behave yourself."

Demona snarled, muscles flexing futilely as she tried to find some leeway against the magical prison. But her efforts appeared to be useless. She sighed, resigned to her fate for the moment. Giving this being what it wanted (or appearing to give it anyway) seemed to be the best way out of her predicament.

The shapeshifter took no notice of Demona's annoyance. Instead it snapped its talons, and instantly they were transported away from the forest to some more recent events in the timeline.

They were back at Castle Wyvern, in the courtyard. Only now, the sounds of horns, sirens, and other ambience of city life could be heard in the background. It was 1994. David Xanatos had moved the castle from the coast of Scotland to his skyscraper in Manhattan, and the rest of her clan had been awakened.

Demona stood frozen in place alongside her doppelganger, and watched as memory images of herself and Goliath alighted in the courtyard. Despite the indignity of being immobilized and scolded like a hatchling, Demona actually found herself giving a small smile out of one corner of her mouth at the memory of gliding with Goliath again after 1,000 years of dreaming about it. True, he and the others were being used for a grander purpose by herself and Xanatos, but she _had_ still been happy to see the survivors of her clan again. That happiness, however, was short-lived.

"It's touching, in a way," said the changeling. "Even after 1,000 years, you still loved him. But there was something tainting that love, because the mistakes you made had taught you to hate something as passionately as you once loved Goliath."

"Oh, shut up!" snapped Demona. "If you're going to tell me that the break-up was my fault, you're wrong again. He ended it when he showed that he cared more for humans than he did for me and the others, just like it was back in Scotland. It should come as no surprise to me that he's fucking one now!"

"Watch your language, Demona," the changeling admonished. "Unless you want me to magically gag you, as well. I don't want you to miss what happens next."

Demona's eyes flared at the fay, but she still complied. No sense in suffering any more humiliation this night. The two of them watched as, not far from where they stood, Demona's memory-self walked over to where Xanatos stood amidst the other gargoyles, and handed the disk to him.

"My friends," said Xanatos as he accepted it happily. "You have my profound thanks! Rest assured that the knowledge on these disks will be put to beneficial use for humans and gargoyles alike." So saying, he turned and headed across the courtyard towards the doorway to the Great Hall.

Goliath and Demona's memory images watched him go, and then Goliath looked down at his then-beloved. "I have promised to meet a friend," he told her. "I'll be back soon."

Memory-Demona eyed him warily. "A friend?" she asked. "Who? Not one of us!"

Goliath shook his head. "No, a human. Elisa Maza."

Memory-Demona then gave him a cold look, one which appeared to put the larger gargoyle in a state of unease. "Aside from Xanatos, we have no human friends, nor should we," she said, her voice dripping with venom. "Humanity is our enemy, Goliath. I thought you learned that a millennium ago."

"I cannot make war upon an entire world," Goliath protested. "Doesn't Xanatos prove that there are good humans as well as bad?" He started to turn towards the steps leading up the tower, but memory-Demona intercepted him.

"Can you forgive the humans for what they did to our kind?" She retorted.

"The ones responsible for that have been dead for a thousand years," said Goliath.

"Then their descendants shall pay!" Memory-Demona pounded the air with her fist. "I will have blood for blood!"

For a moment, Goliath regarded his then-beloved, a sad, faraway look in his eyes. Then he spoke. "You said the centuries have changed me. They've changed you too. You've become hard, unforgiving. You're not as I remember you. I'm going to see my friend now." With that, he moved past her and out of the courtyard towards the tower.

"So be it," Memory-Demona hissed as he left, the ice never leaving her eyes. She watched him for another second, then turned and stalked past the rest of the clan, not even noticing the stunned looks on their faces.

From where they stood at the other end of the courtyard, neither Demona nor the changeling spoke for another minute. Then her doppelganger cleared its throat. "You did love him," it explained. "Down through the centuries, you hoped to be reunited with him someday, but you also hoped that the Wyvern massacre would have twisted his heart in the same way that it twisted your own, so that he would have shared your hatred of humanity. Sharing that was more important to you than sharing his love. Yet, even after you pushed him away, he still loved you for a time."

"I pushed _him _away?" growled Demona. "More like the opposite! I tried to make him see that no good would ever come from trusting humans. He didn't listen, just as he never listened back then! He was the one who ended it!"

The changeling shook its head. "Believe what you will, Demona," it said. "But do you remember that night that you tried to poison his detective friend? One of the reasons that he came to meet you was because he wanted to talk. True, he was concerned for the life of Elisa, even though your plan failed, but he was also concerned for you. You never even gave him a chance to reach out to you, instead you just opened fire."

"Oh, please," said Demona. "He didn't give one whit about me. He just came out there to make me think that I had succeeded in poisoning the detective."

"As I said, Demona, you can believe whatever you will. You're very good at it already." The changeling scratched its chin thoughtfully for a moment, and then the amused light came back to its eyes. "By the way, if you're ready to behave, I'd be willing to release you now. Promise you won't try anything?"

Demona growled in agitation. "I promise I won't try anything," she said._ At least, not while the illusion spell is in place_, she thought to herself.

The shapeshifter regarded Demona for another second, then it cocked its head and winked at her. Demona fell forward as motion returned to her limbs, regaining control just in time to keep from tripping and falling facefirst onto the courtyard stones. For a moment she glowered at her fay guide, then she straightened herself a bit and caped her wings.

"So, what next?" Demona asked. "Are you going to blame Angela's naïveté on me as well?"

The shapeshifter shook her head. "Angela is on our agenda, even though I won't blame you for anything. First, there's something very important we need to see." Another signature talon-snap, and suddenly Demona found that both herself and the fay were passing through the floorstones of the courtyard. The rooms of the castle rushed by in a blur, and then they found themselves down in the atrium.

The gardens all around looked very peaceful, something which put the lush greenery at odds with the chaotic scene Demona saw about a hundred yards before her. Debris from the castle strewed the tiled walkway. Demona's memory image stood amidst the masonry, looking as if under a trance. Three elderly looking gargoyles surrounded her, one blond, one silver-haired, the third with hair as black as moonless night. A short distance away, overlooking the scene, were Goliath and Xanatos, the latter clad in his Steel Clan exoframe.

Demona remembered this night up to a point. Mostly, she remembered how whatever elation she had gotten from dealing retribution to the sleeping humans was spoiled by Goliath and those damned sisters tricking her. She chose not to voice this out loud, but as she watched, she wondered why the shapeshifter wasn't allowing her to relive the night before this one, when she'd shattered all those statues. That at least would have been enjoyable.

"I will have vengeance for the betrayal of my clan," declared memory-Demona. "Vengeance for my pain."

"But who betrayed your clan?" the dark-haired gargoyle asked.

"And who caused this pain?" added her silver-haired sister.

"The Vikings destroyed my clan!" memory-Demona snapped.

"Who betrayed the castle to the Vikings?" the black-haired gargoyle asked calmly.

"The Hunter hunted us down."

"Who created the Hunter?" chimed in the blond one.

"Canmore destroyed the last of us!"

"Who betrayed Macbeth to Canmore?" the silver-haired fay practically whispered the question to her. In an instant, Demona's hard expression seemed to change with a profound realization.

"Your thirst for vengeance has only created more sorrow," pleaded Goliath's memory-image. "End the cycle, Demona. Give us the code."

Tears trickled from the edges of memory-Demona's eyes as she spoke. "The access code… is 'alone,'" she said with a heavy voice.

Xanatos immediately took off for the Great Hall. Shortly after he left, Demona's memory image seemed to snap out of her trance. The sorrow in her eyes quickly reverted to anger as she glared at Goliath and the immortal trio that stood in front of him.

"You tricked me!" she snapped. "You had me under a spell! None of this was my fault! It was the humans… _always _the humans!"

Goliath regarded his former mate with a mixture of pity and disgust. "You have learned nothing," he said with a sigh.

"Nothing but your lies!" memory-Demona retorted. "I will still have my revenge!"

From the vantage point where she and the fay stood watching, Demona's eyes flared with anger. Bad enough she'd been tricked into thwarting her own plan, then that arrogant fool had to rub down his damn nose at her.

"I find it interesting," the changeling spoke up behind her. "That access code that you chose. Out of the millions of words you could have picked, why that one?"

Demona readied yet another scathing remark to fire at the shapeshifter… and realized that she couldn't think of one. Her mind grasped fervently for something, anything to say, and all it could come up with was a single response. "I don't know," she said softly. "It… was just a word."

"A very significant word, considering everything we've seen tonight. So what made you think of it?"

Again, Demona struggled for an answer. She had barely thought about it that night as she punched the code into the computer terminal. She just needed a new word to lock Xanatos and Goliath out of the system. But why _had _it been that word? "I just needed a new word to change the passcode," she protested. "One that would prevent the countdown from being overridden."

Once again the shapeshifter was wearing that annoying look of innocence. "And again, it could have been any word. So why 'alone'? Could it be that, on a subconscious level, you're not as happy in the life you've chosen as you'd like to think you are? Is there a part of you, locked away deep inside, that's crying for help, Demona?"

Demona stared uncomfortably down at the polished floor, which shimmered coldly underneath the overhead lights. She suddenly didn't want to look at her memory-image, now held fast by Oberon's vassals. "Take me somewhere else," she demanded, her voice shaky. "I don't like looking at this."

The changeling nodded. "All right. I wasn't looking for any answers from you. It was just something to think about, that's all."

"I don't _want_ to think about it."

"And perhaps therein lies the real problem. But we won't dwell on it. For now." The changeling snapped its talons again, and again time leapt forward by a small span.

In an instant, both Demona and the shapeshifter were thousands of miles away from the Eyrie Building, standing atop the Arc de Triomphe overlooking the city of Paris. For a moment, Demona gazed about the city, which appeared to be in the early throes of summer. She didn't know what it was, but for some reason, she felt more at home here than in most other places.

But any pleasant feeling Demona had soon turned sour in the back of her throat, as she imagined what she and her doppelganger were doing here. That suspicion was confirmed when she saw a memory-image of herself seated on the edge of the arc, nuzzling against the armored chest of a white-haired male gargoyle with skin as dark as pitch.

"Thailog!" Demona hissed, recognizing the other figure instantly.

"Indeed," said the shapeshifter. "The best of both worlds. Just as attractive as Goliath, with none of that damn, preachy self-righteousness to sour the taste. Small wonder the two of you hit it off."

Demona's talons curled menacingly into hooks as she turned to face her fay antagonist. "Hardly! That motherless freak of nature used me from the moment he saw me!"

"You had much in common, then," said the changeling, not feeling at all threatened by the crimson glare in Demona's eyes. "Anyway, it's important that you pay attention here. Otherwise, you won't hear yourself think."

As if on cue, the memory image of Thailog took that moment to speak. "Hmmm, what are you thinking about, my dear?" he growled in a low voice as he ran his talons through the fiery silk of memory-Demona's hair.

The image of Demona turned to gaze at the image of her lover. "Angela," she said in a voice even lower than Thailog's. "I just can't believe it's true. My daughter has survived."

"But that's not all, is it?" asked the opaque gargoyle.

Memory-Demona shook her head, and momentarily pulled back from Thailog's advances. "You're right," she said. "I'm just worried about her. She's new to this world. Her mind is no doubt overwhelmed by its sights, its sounds, its technological advances. She's impressionable. That fool Goliath could easily corrupt her with his idealistic drivel about humanity someday being our friend. Maybe he already has."

Thailog regarded Demona's memory-image for a moment, his own brow creased in thought. He'd fought Angela on the rooftop of Demona's chateau, and had to admit that underneath her malignant naïveté, she did have fire. Maybe there _was _a possibility…

"Thinking of recruiting, then?" he asked as he inched closer to her and rubbed her chin against his brow.

"I want to save her from Goliath and his clan before their lies get her killed," said memory-Demona, nuzzling against his broad chest. "But I suppose that would also be a definite advantage. Expanding on our own little clan…"

Thailog pulled her closer and draped one wing across her shapely form. "Funny you should mention that," he said. "I've had an idea simmering in the back of my mind for a while now. I suppose now is as good as a time as any to share it. Nightstone's American headquarters will be completing construction soon, anyway…"

From where she stood alongside the shapeshifter, Demona turned her head away. The taste of bile in her throat had become stronger the more she'd watched her memory-self cozying up to that double-crossing sadist.

"And what a plan that was," said the changeling. "You tried and tried to get Angela to see things your way, but she just didn't know how to hate the way that you do. Or maybe she did, and just needed the right thing to nudge it out into the open." So saying, it snapped its talons yet again, sending both it and Demona back across the ocean… to Coney Island.

Demona and the shapeshifter found themselves in one of the funhouse chambers, which Demona remembered had been specially altered by herself and Thailog. The clones of the Manhattan gargoyles had made quick work of the originals. Goliath and his clan, as well as the bastard gargoyle that was the detective's brother, were shackled tightly to the damp stone walls and floor.

The memory images of Demona and Thailog were showing off the clones to Goliath and the others, who had already seen them in action. Finally, the banter was over.

"It's time to get rid of all of you," growled Thailog, brandishing his laser cannon as he stalked towards the gargoyles. He stopped before Angela's bound form, and leveled the rifle. "Starting with her!"

"No!" Shouted Demona's memory-image. She stepped in front of Angela, coming between her daughter and Thailog's gun. "She belongs to me!"

"My dear," argued Goliath's clone. "You've known she was your daughter since before we staged your capture, and you've still been unable to turn her!"

The true Demona stood in the corner with the shapeshifter and watched as Thailog's words elicited a very unkind response from Angela. "You knew the whole time?" Angela shouted at her mother's memory-image.

"I had to make you understand," memory-Demona pleaded.

"I understand perfectly," said Angela. "All this was a charade staged to turn me against my father, to trap and destroy my clan!" Her voice became low, almost menacing as she glared at memory-Demona. "You _are_ capable of anything. I hate you!" For the briefest of moments, her eyes burned red as she spoke. Memory-Demona cringed at the sight of her daughter's face, alive with a deep loathing that did not seem to become her, and turned sadly away.

"You see?" said Thailog triumphantly. "You're better off without her!" So saying, he raised the laser gun once more, preparing to slay the young gargoyle.

Demona's memory-image turned suddenly on her heels, and leapt at the black-skinned clone. "No!" she cried as she latched onto Thailog from behind, and jerked the gun's barrel away from Angela. The shot went wide, striking the ceiling and sending dust and debris raining down on all assembled.

Memory-Demona grappled with Thailog for a few more moments, but the larger gargoyle succeeded at casting his soon-to-be ex-flame to the ground. "You disappoint me, my dear," he said with a wistful tone. "Fortunately, I prepared for such a development." He turned his head slightly and called: "Delilah!"

As if on cue, a section of the far wall began to slide upwards. Both the real Demona and her memory image watched, the former seething with unfathomable rage, the latter staring in alarm, as the wall slid up to reveal a slender, tan-colored gargoyle. Her brow-ridges were very much like Demona's, but the rest of her face resembled someone else entirely, the face of Demona's most-hated enemy, Elisa.

"Yes, Master Thailog?" Delilah spoke as she stepped into the chamber, her voice an eerie pantomime of the human detective's.

"Look familiar, my ex-love?" Thailog gloated to the memory image of Demona. "I combined your DNA with that of the human, Elisa Maza, to create Delilah!" As he was speaking, Delilah stepped past memory-Demona to her master's side. "She's the perfect programmed companion: obedient, and lovely." He took one hand off the gun to cup Delilah's chin affectionately in his talons.

"She'll do _anything_ for me," he purred. Then, gesturing at the captive gargoyles with his rifle, he snapped: "Destroy them, Delilah!"

"As you command," the programmed gargoyle replied without hesitation. She picked Demona's gun off the ground, where her genetic "parent" had dropped it, and started towards Angela.

Over in the corner, Demona's talons were clenched hard enough to draw blood from her palms as she relived the memory of this night. She wished that the genetic freak were more than just a memory image. Demona had not seen Delilah since this night, which was fortunate for the beige-skinned hybrid. If she ever encountered that thing again, Demona would definitely pull her mace out and smash in its skull without thinking twice. The very idea that the essence of a gargoyle should be tainted by mixing it with such an inferior life form…

"I can't believe you missed it!" The shapeshifter cried in an exasperated tone, momentarily dimming the light in Demona's eyes.

"What are you talking about?" Demona growled. "I saw everything! Thailog's betrayal, that hybrid bitch that he created whose very existence is an insult to gargoyle-kind!"

The shapeshifter shook its head. "No, you completely missed what I wanted you to see." It pointed a single talon out in front of it and made a small gesture, as if it were pushing an invisible button. "Rewind!" it spoke. Suddenly, the events of that night began to play backwards. It would have been amusing, but Demona did not find herself in the mood to be amused by it.

"Now this time, Demona," advised the shapeshifter. "I want you to pay closer attention to yourself, and not your hate child." Once the events had reversed back to the point where Delilah aimed her laser gun at Angela, the changeling stabbed the air with its talon again. "Resume!" It snapped.

This time, Demona watched as the bastard gargoyle prepared to do its master's bidding. She watched her memory image tense, and Thailog notice the movement out of the corner of his eye. Watched Thailog turn towards her memory-self, ready to fire. Watched as the image of herself unexpectedly leapt to the side, instead of towards Delilah as Thailog had anticipated, making his shot miss. And finally, watched as memory-Demona pulled up an ornate copper decoration on the wall, revealing a large button.

"Goliath, save our daughter!" Her memory-self called out as it slammed its fist down on the button, releasing the shackles from Goliath and Angela's wrists. Chaos erupted in the room shortly after Goliath and his daughter were freed, but it was clear that Demona had already seen what the changeling wanted her to.

"Well, well, well," spoke the shapeshifter, as it folded its arms before its breast. "Isn't this intriguing? Your own daughter admitted that she hated you. And yet you still cared for her well-being. Why?"

Demona only half-heard the question. She was more interested in watching as Angela made short work of that damned monstrosity that dared to call itself a gargoyle. For a moment, a look of pride shined in her eyes as Angela tripped it with her tail, and then brought her elbow down hard against Delilah's abdomen, knocking the wind from the hybrid.

But her double persisted. "Demona, you haven't answered my question. After that cruel thing Angela said to you, why in the world would you even bother sticking your neck out for her like that?"

Demona reluctantly turned from watching as Angela picked up a length of chain lying nearby and started the bind the clone with it. "I had to," she snapped at her mirror image.

"No you didn't," said the changeling. "You could have just let Thailog shoot her. Thailog said it himself: Angela will never be the gargoyle you want her to be. She'll never hate humans like you do, and even if she does, she'll never allow her hatred to dominate her. So why did you do it?"

Demona swallowed nervously. "I already told you why."

"No you haven't," the fay pressed her. "Why did you _have _to do that for her?"

As they'd stood there arguing, Demona's daughter had since led her captive off in search of the others. The memory-image of the dungeon was empty now, save for Demona and the fay that wore Demona's face. Demona was starting to feel uncomfortable at the shapeshifter's prodding. Finally, though her face contorted slightly, she spoke what was in her heart. "Because I love her," Demona told the being. Demona was accustomed to telling people what they wanted to hear, but this time, she meant it.

The fay seemed to realize this, but for some reason, the answer did not satisfy. "So?" it asked. "How can you love her? She's just like her father in many ways, and you don't seem to love _him_anymore. She shares Goliath's nauseating sentiments about humans. The human you hate the most has become like clan to her. Why, then, should you care about her at all?"

Demona snapped her wings and took a step towards the shapeshifter, her eyes afire. "I don't know!" She shouted. "I can't explain what I feel! Despite everything she believes in, I still love Angela! I don't know why, but I love her!"

For a moment, the fay was wearing its amused look. Then, the innocence came back to its eyes. "Perhaps there's hope for you, after all," it mused. "There is still good in you. But in the thousand years spent looking after yourself, you've learned to mask it well."

Demona sighed and resettled her wings about her shoulders. "Can we go home now?" she asked in a tired voice.

"Sorry, Demona," said the shapeshifter, "but there's still a few more things we need to see." It snapped its talons again, triggering another change in scene, and a new batch of memories.

In the wake of the Hunter's Moon back in 1996, a new organization devoted to the extermination of gargoyles had arisen in Manhattan. Demona had hoped that this would finally make Angela and Goliath see that humanity needed to be wiped from the earth, but instead, they and the rest of the clan had soldiered on.

Demona's own methods in trying to stop the Quarrymen had been a bit more brutal, and also generally included humanity as a whole, but Demona made no apologies for doing what needed to be done. Of course, her cutthroat approach constantly put her at odds with Angela and the rest, who still attempted to thwart her at every turn.

Demona was shown several things almost at once: the devastation resulting from her efforts against the Quarrymen, more encounters with Goliath's clan that usually ended on a sour note, shouting matches between her and Angela on the rooftops of Manhattan. Finally, she and her fay guide came to one particular sortie that occurred only a few months ago.

Demona watched with increasing discomfort as her memory-image berated her daughter.

"When are you going to get it through your head?" she snapped. "Humans and gargoyles are at war! The Quarrymen won't be satisfied until we've all been pounded to dust beneath their hammers! Our only chance is to kill them before they kill us!"

"As if your methods are helping?" Angela snapped back. "Don't you see that as long as you keep this attitude up, you're only giving them a weapon they can use against us? It can't go on like this! Things will only get worse!"

"Well, what are we supposed to do? Cling to the hope that humans will someday accept us with open arms? I've been alive for centuries, and I've yet to see that happen! You and Goliath are grasping at a silly pipe dream, child!"

Angela sighed as the scarlet faded from her vision. "You're wrong, mother," she said. "People can change. I've heard from father about how Princess Katherine and the Magus once were. And they wound up becoming an adopted family to me and my rookery siblings. Magus even sacrificed his life to save us!"

Memory-Demona started to ready another retort, but then her mind registered what Angela had said, and a smile crept onto her features. So, the man who cursed her clan was dead. The smile spreading across her mother's lips seemed to horrify Angela, but the memory image of Demona was too elated to notice. From her vantage point, the real Demona saw her daughter's expression more clearly, and had to shift her gaze to the gravel of the rooftop.

"So, that bastard sorcerer really is dead," memory-Demona said, more to herself than to Angela. "I only wish that I could have killed him myself."

Angela's mouth fell open. "You can't mean that," she breathed.

"I do," snapped memory-Demona. "I'm glad that he's gone, and I hope that wretched princess joins him soon."

Without warning, Angela slapped her mother, the sound reverberating in the crisp autumn night. Both Demona and her memory-image looked stunned by the action. Demona even raised her talons to her cheek in sympathy as her memory-self winced from the blow.

After a moment of shock, memory-Demona's expression became unreadable. Almost as if she were trying to comprehend the appropriate response, either to apologize to her daughter or to slap her back. Even Angela looked startled by what she had just done. She started to back away from memory-Demona even as her eyes grew moist.

"Angela," memory-Demona stated flatly. "You shouldn't care about them so much. They're human. You're better than they are…"

"I'm sorry, Demona," Angela cut her off. "I love you, but… there are times when I wish you were dead." A tear ran down her lavender cheek as she raced to the edge of the rooftop and took off into the neon-hazed night.

Both Demona and her memory image watched Angela leave, becoming smaller as she flew off towards the Eyrie Building that towered above the Manhattan skyline. For a moment, Demona's memory-self seemed ready to follow. It raised a hand as if preparing to call out, but no words came. Finally, it too turned and leapt off the roof in the opposite direction, gliding towards home.

Demona and the shapeshifter were alone on the rooftop now. Demona remembered this night, but she had been too shocked at what Angela had just done to really see her daughter's reaction to those hurtful words. Plus, her mind had been working to understand how Angela could care so much for those two humans. After all, she'd never seen their true faces, because she and the rest of her rookery were just eggs back in 10th Century Scotland. The princess had thought of Demona and the other warriors in her clan as housepets, a sentiment shared by that prissy weakling who dared to call himself a sorcerer.

Now that Demona saw from a distance, her mind had actually registered Angela's words, and did not like them. There was actually a part of Angela, no matter how small, that wanted her mother dead. Why couldn't she just understand what Demona was trying to do for her? For the second time that night, a tear sprang into Demona's hard green eyes and slid down her face, followed shortly by several more.

"You_do_ love her," spoke the shapeshifter, after it had allowed Demona to cry silently for a few minutes. "But you still love something else even more. That same love, or rather hate, pushed you away from Goliath. Will it be the same with Angela?"

Demona turned from the shapeshifter, one hand covering her eyes. "Take me home," she said in a tired voice. "Please. I don't want to see any more."

The changeling gave out a frustrated sigh. "For the last time, Demona, if you wanted to see better memories, you shouldn't have let me turn into you."

As the shapeshifter had wanted, its words reminded Demona of her meeting with her younger self in 975, and its rejection of her. Despite the tears still in her eyes, Demona gave a snarl of rage and turned on the changeling. The being waved its hand just as Demona was inches from its throat. Instantly, the azure gargoyle became frozen again, her hands trapped in a ridiculous position, like she was trying to wring an invisible neck.

The fay took a step back from Demona, and actually gave a shudder of revulsion. "I have to say, this evening has disturbed me somewhat. If anything, our little soiree back in your memory of 1057 shows me just how messed up your life has become. During your little adventure with the Phoenix Gate, you really _would _have beaten your younger self into a pulp if Goliath hadn't stopped you." The changeling shuddered again.

Demona struggled futilely against the fay's magic, trying to move. She noted with dismay that this time, her double had also frozen her lips in place. She tried to yell, to scream, to curse at it, but no words could be formed.

The shapeshifter regarded her for another second, and then said, "But you are right. We have seen enough. I'll take you home now. But before I go, here's a little something to think about: Everything we have seen tonight is a product of your own making. There's a difference between doing what you want and doing what is right. That's how memories are created. In the end, Demona, all anyone has are memories, and memories are the sum of the choices you make. No one else makes those choices for you. Farewell…" It gave a slight nod, then it snapped the talons on both hands and vanished from sight.

The second that it vanished, Demona was released from her invisible bonds, and toppled unceremoniously to the cold gravel of the rooftop. She glanced around angrily for any sign of the shapeshifter, but it was gone. For a moment, she crouched there, vision blurred with anger and unshed tears. Demona wiped the latter from her eyes, but for some reason, the world around her was still hazy. And it was starting to move.

The Manhattan skyline seemed to be rotating around her, faster and faster until it was a blur of color. The stars overhead and the ground beneath her seemed to be doing the same thing as well, but Demona could swear that they were also spiraling in on her.

A horrified minute later, she realized that the swirling miasma did indeed appear to be closing in. Demona ran towards the edge of the rooftop, but found that she could gain no traction on the ground. She slipped and fell to her knees, frantically trying to scramble forward on all fours. But although she could move freely, she still seemed held in one place.

A moment later, the rapidly spinning memory-world pressed in all around, so tight that Demona could almost feel it push the air from her lungs. For the briefest of seconds, it was as if the weight of the universe bore down upon her. Then everything went black and silent.

**To be continued in Part 2…**


	2. Chapter 2

'**Tis The Season, Act II**

By Harvester of Eyes Mumbo-Jumbo: All the characters appearing in _Gargoyles _and _Gargoyles: The Goliath Chronicles_ are copyright Buena Vista Television/The Walt Disney Company. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and is not authorized by the copyright holder. All original characters are the property of the author. This work is being distributed freely and without any financial gain whatsoever.

Warning: What with this being a Christmas tale, I did my very best to make this one enjoyable for all ages, but there might be a few small things that may not be for kids. It's rated PG, but parents: you can judge for yourselves. Hell, that's what you should be doing anyway. They're _your_ kids.

As with everything I write, comments are welcome, but I do ask that you not over-analyze this one. It's intended to be little more than satire, so lighten up and just try to enjoy it. And I apologize in advance to that master of the English language, the late Mr. Dickens.

A moment later, the rapidly spinning memory-world pressed in all around, so tight that Demona could almost feel it push the air from her lungs. For the briefest of seconds, it was as if the weight of the universe bore down upon her. Then everything went black and silent.…

…It ended more quickly than it started. As feeling returned to her body, Demona became aware that she was surrounded by a warm, familiar substance with the texture of silk. Cautiously, she opened her eyes, and found herself lying in her own bed.

She groaned, and rolled over onto her back. Could she have dreamed that whole thing? If it was a dream, it was certainly very vivid. She remembered all she'd seen and heard, even all she'd felt, in absolute detail. Her head spun as the pockets of memory replayed themselves, things she had worked most of her ageless life to forget.

Demona gave a weary yawn. She wanted to go back to sleep, but part of her was wary. If she had dreamed it, she certainly didn't want to risk having another.

Slowly, she sat up in bed, using her taloned feet to kick the sheets from her body. She looked down as they were pushed away, saw that she was still dressed. Funny, she hadn't worn her clothes to bed. Demona sighed, realizing that this meant she probably hadbeen visited by one of Puck's friends, and taken on a tour through her past.

Demona almost wished it were a dream. At least when she dreamed about the past, she was never a second-hand observer like tonight. Something about watching herself, at all those key moments in her life, gave her a bitter feeling that gnawed at her stomach.

The words of the shapeshifter, right before it parted ways with her, ran through her head like a repeating film reel. _In the end, Demona, all anyone has are memories, and memories are the sum of the choices you make. No one else makes those choices for you._ Demona shut her eyes tight, trying to silence the voice. It was speaking nonsense, anyway.

_If it's speaking nonsense, why are you dwelling on it?_ Asked another, tinier voice in the deeper recesses of her mind. Demona would not have given it an answer, even if she had one to give. Thinking about it was not helping her mood.

"I need a drink," she muttered, swinging her legs around and planting her feet on the floor. As she rose from the mattress, she glanced at the clock on her bedside table. It was just one-thirty in the morning. Had it really only been a half-hour since she'd last looked at the clock? It felt like centuries.

As Demona walked around the bed towards the door to the hall, she glanced down, saw her laser gun lying by the window. The edges of the handle, and most of the housing, were blackened. Demona picked it up and saw upon further examination that someone had shattered the thermal regulation coils, causing the weapon to overheat and the power core to melt.

The changeling had done that, back when it had first intruded upon Demona's privacy. Then it _did _happen. This affirmation only strengthened Demona's desire for a drink.

She made her way downstairs to her living room, and stopped a few yards from the doorway. A flickering red light, indicating a fire in the fireplace, was emanating from the room, casting shadows like dancing spirits on the far wall of the corridor. Demona turned around quietly, her footfalls as silent as a cat's, and made her way to the kitchen.

She'd not made a fire. In fact, she barely used the fireplace, even in winter.

Her kitchen was still a shambles, but Demona hardly cared at the moment. She looked around for the poker, found that it was gone. Non-plussed by this, Demona stalked silently back into the hallway and continued on, away from the kitchen, until she came to a section of wall that was bare, save for a few odd braziers attached here and there. Demona grasped one of them and bent it at an odd angle. Instantly, the section of wall alongside the brazier slid up, revealing a hidden sconce that cradled another laser assault weapon, this one a bit heavier.

Demona grabbed the rifle and headed back up the hall, not even bothering to close the panel. She stopped just before the living room doorway, back to the wall, making no sound as she drew breath in and out in steady rhythm. She counted to ten silently. Then a ruby light leapt into her eyes, and she spun away from the wall and dropped to a crouch in the center of the doorway, rifle primed and aiming straight ahead.

Demona knelt there, utterly stunned by what she saw. There was a fir tree reaching towards the ceiling in the corner of the room, festively decorated with multi-colored lights, garlands of popcorn and cranberries, sprigs of holly, and all manner of ornate decorations. A fire burned in the fireplace, and Demona saw that a spit had been erected over the flames, upon which roasted a suckling pig. Other festive foods – fruits, mixed nuts, cheeses, smoked fish, chocolates, pies of almost every variety – were heaped on the coffee table nearby.

Close to the fireplace, in a well-worn easy chair, sat a cheerful-looking rotund figure, a glass of scotch in his hand. He was clad in red trousers and a red, button-down waistcoat. The latter was practically hidden by the full beard, snow-white in color, which trailed down to his waist. Here and there, a sprig of holly or baby's breath peeked out from amidst its depths. Demona also noticed that the man wore a cloak of flowing red velvet, trimmed with white fur that ran down past his feet, which were wrapped snugly in a pair of boots with spurs of brightly polished silver buckled to them. A garland of fresh holly boughs, perched atop his head like a crown, completed the jovial image.

He turned, a smile lighting his rosy features when he noticed the azure gargoyle crouched in the doorway. "A very Merry Christmas, Demona!" He said in a booming voice. The man then nodded his head, and a crystal glass with ice materialized in front of it. The man reached down beside the chair, picking the scotch bottle off the floor, and poured some of the golden liquid into the glass, still hovering in front of him.

The glass then floated magically across the room, coming to rest in mid-air before Demona. "To life!" the man said gladly, and knocked back his own drink.

Demona eyed the glass warily, her rifle still aimed at the bearded figure. If this was indeed another of Oberon's Children, she doubted she'd have much luck with her energy weapon. The iron poker was resting on the other side of the room, next to the roaring fire. Demona eyed the being closer, saw that his hands were wrapped in a pair of white gloves. Well, that explained that. Sadly, she doubted she could get to the poker before this thing could stop her.

As with the last one, playing along with it seemed to be the best option of getting rid of it. For now. Demona dropped the rifle, but still had not touched the glass which floated before her, despite the being's expectant look. "Christmas!" she spat. "Just a silly human holiday!"

The bearded man appeared stung by the gargoyle's words, but his smile did not fade. "Oh, I hope you are kidding, Demona," he said. "It's much more than that. It's a time of year that brings out the best in humankind!"

Demona scowled and knocked the floating glass aside with one hand, whereupon it struck the wall and shattered. She then stalked over to the sofa, caping her wings as she dropped into it. "There is no 'best' to humankind!" she argued. "Their entire race is a stain upon this world."

Despite the viciousness of the gargoyle's barbs, the smile did not leave the figure's face. Instead, the being simply made another glass materialize in front of it, into which it poured another measure of scotch. It then refilled its own glass and sent the first one floating through the air, to land on the table in front of Demona. "I insist that you join me for this one," the being said.

"And if I don't?" asked Demona.

"Then I will keep trying," said the being. "I'm sorry, Demona, but I have strong ties to this season, more so than other members of my race. I cannot just give up on anyone, not even you."

"Lucky me," the gargoyle muttered as she picked up her drink. She brought her nose to the edge of the glass, sniffed it warily. The being eyed her expectantly, its own glass raised. Finally, Demona took a small sip from it, never taking her eyes off the cloaked fay.

"To good will to man and gargoyle," the being toasted as he sipped from his own glass. "And I don't know why you're taken aback to the notion of someone caring about you."

"Because everyone who does care about me only wants me to change! Despite everything I've seen, they expect me to lay down my arms and try to make nice with the humans!"

The being chuckled heartily. "You say that as if it were a bad thing. Considering what my not-too-distant relation showed you before I got here, could it really hurt to give it a try?" Demona bared her fangs at the jolly trickster, but he simply shrugged and downed the rest of the liquor in his glass.

Demona took another cautious sip from her own glass, but the thirty-year-old scotch did nothing for her mood. "Speaking of your cousin," she growled at her unwelcome guest. "I thought it gave me its word that I would be left in peace after I went with it."

The bearded fay nodded. "And indeed, he intends to keep his word. If you'll remember, Demona, the exact thing he said to you was, 'if you come with me, and see what I want to show you,_ I_ will never bother you again.' He didn't say anything about me or anyone else, now did he? But come now. Let's not speak of the past anymore. My purpose is to focus on the present, the here and now. And now, it is Christmas!"

So saying, the bearded figure rose from his easy chair, and drew his long cloak tighter about his shoulders. "You know, you were half-correct a moment ago. Christmas is largely a human holiday, but it is far from being silly. And besides, there are some things a gargoyle might learn from it."

"Hardly," Demona scoffed, her eyes already drifting past the scrumptious food before her on the table, and towards the iron poker. Perhaps if she made a quick leap…

"No, really," said the being. "What do you suppose Goliath and the others are doing right now?"

The mention of Goliath brought a slight haze of red to Demona's vision. She glared up at the fay, the poker momentarily forgotten. "No doubt gallivanting around the city in a pathetic attempt to protect a bunch of worthless humans who never repay them with anything but scorn and hatred, just as it was a thousand years ago!"

The being, far from looking aghast, only laughed heartily at Demona's tirade. "Not even close, my friend! They're enjoying a quiet evening at the castle, because there is nothing for them to do tonight! Christmas is the one time of the year when even the hardened criminals in the city have better things on their minds, such as being with those they care about."

Now Demona was on her feet, pointing an accusing talon at the being. "Don't be ridiculous! A human can't stop being a human, just like a dog can't stop being a dog!"

Her response only elicited more laughter, but for some reason, this irked Demona more than a preachy look. "Very well, then! I'll show you!" laughed the being. So saying, he took a step towards Demona, moving swiftly despite his girth, and swirled his cloak about the both of them. For a moment, the entire world spun, and then suddenly, both Demona and the bearded fay found themselves standing in the Great Hall of Castle Wyvern.

The spacious room, which was normally just adorned with Xanatos's collection of medieval tapestries, was now festooned with holly wreaths and strings of lights, as well. In one corner was a brightly decorated tree, reaching almost to the ceiling. It was cheerful, but empty. For a moment, Demona wondered where everyone was.

"This room looked a bit more festive a few nights ago, when Xanatos had his Christmas Party here," explained the fay. "He and his family are in Maine right now, along with my blood brother, the Puck. But the clan is still here. Come!" He started towards one of the doorways, his cloak billowing behind him.

Demona followed him, her eyes gazing across the familiar walls and floors as they traversed the corridors that she still remembered all too well. She hadn't been back since that night when she'd tried to stop Xanatos and the others from undoing her spell. A part of her regretted that. After all, this castle had been all she'd known early in her life. But then she just reminded herself that it was now bespoiled by humans, just as it had been long ago.

They stopped before one doorway, from which a soft light emanated. Demona had remembered this being a workshop for the smithy, but it had since been converted into a rec room for the gargoyles.

The being stepped up to the doorway and simply watched the scene within, and Demona followed suit. She saw Hudson relaxing in a familiar easy chair, watching some program on the television that involved characters made of clay. To the left of the easy chair sat a sofa. Angela and Broadway sat close together at one end, Angela resting her cheek against the burly gargoyle's broad shoulder.

Lexington sat at the other end of the couch, a mug of hot chocolate in his hand. Two large bowls of popcorn rested on the center cushion. Brooklyn sat pretzel-legged on the floor nearby, flipping absently through some hot rod magazine when he wasn't laughing at the stubby-legged reindeer and blond elf on TV. Occasionally he would reach over to scratch behind the ear of Bronx, who was napping at the foot of the sofa.

For a moment, Demona regarded the looks of contentment on their faces with confusion and bewilderment. The spirit took a step into the room and went over to stand in the corner, and Demona's eyes immediately fell to Bronx. But incredibly, the great blue beast did not show any signs that he could smell the being. Or Demona.

"It's all right, Demona," spoke the bearded fay, its voice booming. But still, no one in the room turned to look at it. They continued to laugh at the television, laughter that was made all the more merrier by the pleasure of each other's company. "They can't see or hear us. Please, come take a closer look."

Cautiously, Demona took a step forward. She paused, tapped the talons of her foot against the stones. Not a head turned. She coughed. Still nothing. Bronx made a lazy snuffling noise, but continued napping.

More confident now, the azure gargoyle came to stand alongside the fay, whose arms were buried in the folds of his cloak. Demona had to admit that despite their foolish interest in some insipid human program, they did look genuinely happy. Demona was not a stranger to happiness, but lately she only felt it when she was handing a Nightstone employee their pink slip, or cornering a Quarryman in the sights of her laser cannon. What she was seeing was true happiness, free from any sort of sadistic or malicious undertones.

The spirit seemed to sense what Demona was thinking. "Look at them, Demona," he boomed. "They're residents in a city divided over their right to exist. Every night, they see the same ugly side of humanity that you choose to embroil yourself in. And yet, they can still find peace and contentment in the world, and in each other."

For a long moment, Demona regarded her daughter, the look of utter joy that was etched on Angela's face as she nestled in Broadway's wing. It was not a look that she enjoyed seeing. It brought her back to her brief reunion with Goliath in 1994, and the words of the shapeshifter as it had made her relive that moment.

_Why are you still dwelling on that thing's lies?_ The voice in Demona's head asked again. The answer hovered on the gargoyle's tongue, though she did not voice it loud: Because what if some of them were true?

Demona cast a glance at her fay guide, who seemed to be rummaging inside his cloak for something. Just looking at him reaffirmed Demona's suspicions. _Don't be ridiculous_, she chided herself. _True? This is the Third Race we're talking about! They see the other two races as nothing more than playthings!_

The being finally found what he was looking for, a glistening switch made from the bough of a pine tree, adorned at one end with brightly colored ribbons and a bell made of silver. He shook the stick in front of him a few times, as if it were a wand. "What are you up to, trickster?" Demona asked warily. He could abuse the others all he wanted, but if he placed any sort of hex on Angela…

The being smiled as he tucked his stick back inside the wide sleeve of his cloak. "Just spreading a little cheer," he explained. "It's not what you would call direct interference, which is why his Excellency allows me to do it. To explain it in more scientific terms, it very subtly alters the property of the air around us, in such a way that those in the right frame of mind can draw upon."

Indeed, as he spoke, Demona noticed that the contented smiles among those assembled started to appear a bit brighter. Their laughter at what was happening on the television sounded heartier. Even Bronx, who was still napping at the foot of the couch, snuffled happily and rolled over onto his side.

It didn't take long for Demona to cast her gaze back at the spirit once more. The look on his face was equally contented, as if he were admiring his handiwork, but Demona couldn't shake the feeling that there was something more to his incantation. She was about to accuse him further on it when he suddenly gave a slight shudder, as if startled by something. "Oh!" He exclaimed. "I almost forgot the other two!"

"What other two?" Demona asked, becoming more annoyed with this thing by the minute.

"You'll see," the being said, and once more swirled his vast cloak about the two of them. In an instant, they were taken from the Eyrie Building to another part of the city. They stood on the edge of a building which bordered a place Demona had been before. And as in this visit, the last time she had come, she'd also been in the company of one of Oberon's Children. The humans called this plaza Rockefeller Center.

Of course, on the night when Puck had been her prisoner, the area looked completely different. The ground which had served as a battlefield on that night now functioned as a massive ice rink, lined with evergreens that were lit up like the sun. Down at the far end stood one tree which towered above the others, every inch of it adorned with thousands of glittering lights. The fresh blanket of new-fallen snow caught the lights from the trees, making the plaza sparkle like a diamond.

The being's attention, however, was focused on the edge of the rooftop. Demona followed his gaze and spotted a familiar-looking couple seated on a thick wool blanket to keep their clothing dry. The pair nestled against one another and looked down upon the peaceful, brightly decorated scene with pure happiness written on their faces. One of them was clad in a well-worn red bomber jacket and scarf, a pair of earmuffs resting snugly amidst her flowing raven hair. Her companion was significantly larger, and despite having nothing but a heavy brown loincloth on, did not seem to mind the chill at all.

It was Elisa Maza and Goliath. Demona's eyes flared at the sight of her most hated enemy nuzzling against the strong chest of her former mate. As far as Demona was concerned, Goliath was a blind fool grasping at straws. If he wanted to care about the humans in this city, that was his business, and let it be his doom. But the very idea that he should find love again with one of these inferior apes…

The bearded fay seemed not to notice Demona's rage. Demona watched him as he pulled out his stick and shook it over the heads of the couple, preoccupied with his task. Slowly, her mind began to work more clearly through her anger, and a cruel smile came to her face. If Goliath and his little strumpet couldn't sense the immortal gargoyle or the servant of Oberon, then what was to stop Demona from snapping Elisa's neck like a twig?

Quietly she crept towards the pair, her feet leaving no prints in the snow. When she was only a few paces away from them, the fay, with his back still turned to Demona, suddenly waved his hand in her direction. Demona froze abruptly in mid-step. She tried to lift her leg from the ground, but it would not move, nor could she physically stretch her arms out to rend the detective's soft flesh between her talons. For the third time that night, she was transfixed by magic.

"I'm sorry, Demona, but I can't allow this," stated the being. "I've brought you here merely to observe. I'm afraid that my lord would not be pleased if I helped to facilitate the murder of a mortal. And besides, it's just not in the spirit of the season!"

Despite the anger and humiliation she felt for being magically bound a third time, Demona somehow managed to find some sarcasm within her. "And here I thought you were supposed to give people what they wanted for this stupid holiday!"

The fay gave a hearty laugh. "As with most legends concerning me and my kind, certain details have been muddled by both religious and secular groups. The very idea that I would employ elves. Elves don't even _like_ toys! And besides, Demona, you should have paid closer attention to that myth. In order to get what you want for Christmas, first you have to be a good girl!"

Demona growled at him, eyes burning. The fay responded by shaking his stick at her before tucking it back beneath his cloak. "And anyway," he added. "What do you care about the company that Goliath keeps? I thought you had washed your hands of him."

Demona took a moment to sniff the crisp winter air. If that fay's enchanted stick had done something to her surroundings, she couldn't tell. She certainly didn't feel different. After a few more errant sniffs, she spoke. "If he'd found solace in another gargoyle, that would at least have been a different matter! Instead, he chooses to consort with… with _that!_" If her hands had been free, Demona would have used both of them to gesture at Elisa.

"Why is that such a bad thing?" The spirit asked. "Elisa has never been anything but a true friend and ally to all the gargoyles in Manhattan. She's watched over them during the day on more than one occasion, has risked everything for them many times in the past. How can you look at a human such as her, and not see hope for humanity?"

Demona paused, considering this. The answer she wanted to give hovered on the tip of her tongue: _It doesn't matter what promises humans make. Given enough time, they always break them in the end! Elisa will be no different. Someday, she _will_ betray Goliath and his clan._

The gargoyle was about to open her mouth when Elisa, sitting on the blanket a few yards away, took that moment to say: "I love you, Goliath." It was clear by the look on the detective's face that the fay's magical ambience was affecting her.

Elisa's companion appeared to be equally in its thrall. Goliath drew his left wing tighter about the human and nuzzled his cheek against hers gently. "I love you as well, Elisa," he said softly. The detective turned her head slightly to kiss the big gargoyle firmly on the lips.

At the sight of this, Demona's cheek twitched with loathing. A fresh wave of bile rose in her throat, and it was all the azure gargoyle could do to keep from spraying her dinner out onto the new-fallen snow. "Disgusting," she growled.

"I think it's quite touching," said the fay, as he watched the two of them kiss. "Here we have a human _and _a gargoyle, coexisting as peacefully as two beings can. Doesn't that tell you anything?"

"Yes," replied Demona. "It tells me plenty. It tells me that if Goliath has allowed himself to be seduced by that little tart, then the centuries have made him even weaker than I thought!"

The fay gave a hearty laugh and stepped over to stand at Demona's side. "You amaze me, Demona!" he said. "I can tell just by looking at you that my magic has had no affect on you whatsoever. You really don't have any joy in your heart! Your clan might not have much in this world, but they still have each other!"

Another response formed in Demona's throat, but for some reason, the mention of her clan in this way made her think of the visit to her past, in particular when the shapeshifter had questioned her about the access code, which at the time had seemed like nothing but a simple five-letter word.

_I find it interesting. That access code that you chose. Out of the millions of words you could have picked, why that one? _…_Could it be that, on a subconscious level, you're not as happy in the life you've chosen as you'd like to think you are?_

She blinked rapidly and shook her head. Why was she still thinking about that? Maybe this rotund fay _had _put her under a spell. That would explain why she kept dwelling on her doppelganger's nonsense.

"What's on your mind, Demona?" Oberon's minion asked her, sensing that the gears in her head were turning.

"None of your business," Demona spat at it. "And anyway, I suspect that it's the result of some spell you put on me."

The figure flashed a wide grin and shook his head. "I already told you, my cheer doesn't seem to be working on you. And I think that I know the reason. One of the things that my magic reacts to is the bonds that people form. Family, friends, lovers… it seeks these bonds out and enhances the enjoyment we get from them. You don't seem to have any such bonds. I do sense a bond of love within you, but there's a shadow over it."

Demona knew who that bond was with. And again, she thought back to the final scene between her and Angela that her doppelganger had shown her. _You _do_ love her. But you still love something else even more. That same love, or rather hate, pushed you away from Goliath._ Demona looked again at Goliath and Elisa, lost in the presence of one another, and for a brief moment, a pang of loneliness rippled its way through the loathing that Demona felt.

The bearded fay seemed to sense this. "Loneliness is an awful feeling, Demona. Even the worst dregs of humanity know this. And as I said earlier, even these people have friends or brothers-in-arms whom they seek out at this time of year."

Demona had turned her gaze away from the cheerful scene to stare at the snow-covered rooftop. She had already been looking for a way to change the subject, and her fay companion had just provided it. "I don't believe that for a second," she growled. "I think that the reason you haven't shown me any of these people is because they don't exist. Humans can never change their stripes!"

The fay gave another infuriatingly hearty laugh. "Actually, I was just getting to them!" he said. With that, he swirled his cloak about himself and Demona once more, and sent them to another part of the city.

When the world stopped spinning, the first thing Demona noticed was that she had regained movement from the neck down. The second thing she noticed was that she stood in the dingy-looking kitchen of some small apartment. There was at least a centimeter of dust on the countertops. Also, whoever lived here had not bothered to check their boots at the doorway, and gritty slush from the sidewalks outside had been tracked in all over the hardwood floor. Two empty pizza boxes and several empty beer bottles were stacked by the sink, which was growing mildew around its edges.

However, despite the squalid surroundings, Demona noticed that wreaths had still been hung in the windows that looked out onto the city, and a small plastic tree, with bright decorations glued onto it, rested in a pot beside the door leading to the living room.

The spirit surveyed the meager decorations with a look of pride etched on his features. Demona, meanwhile, was still trying to figure out how the fay could get such a reaction from a place as dingy as this. Who even lived here, anyway? She was about to ask when suddenly, she heard peals of laughter from the living room.

The spirit followed the noise eagerly, his spurs jangling against the floor. Demona, after casting one final disdainful look at the conditions in the kitchen, went after him.

She passed through the doorway to the living room, to find the spirit standing happily next to a card table, around which sat three familiar-looking humans. Demona recognized them as some of Nightstone's less legitimate employees, ones who assisted with more of Dominique Destine's secret, and thus illegal, projects.

After another moment, the gargoyle remembered their names: Albert Henrickson, Harry Bruford, and Glenn Harper. The three of them sat around the table, smoking cigars and playing rounds of Texas Hold'Em. But the game seemed to be taking a backseat to conversation, as the three of them largely reminisced about jobs they had pulled in the past.

"I still wish I knew what Destine needed all those corpses for," Harper said with a slight laugh.

"Probably wanted to dress them up and have a tea party," mused Bruford.

"Wouldn't be the kookiest thing she's ever done," Henrickson chimed in. "I still say that the reason she wanted us to lift that DI-7 for her was because somewhere, there was a gigantic toilet she needed to clean."

The three of them shared a brief laugh at that, after which Bruford snorted and puffed on his Habana. Neither he nor Harper wanted to dwell on the job that they had botched. "Far as I'm concerned," said Bruford. "The best thing about that job was that the warehouse burned to the ground the night after the cops interfered."

"Hear, hear," said Harper, and raised his beer bottle, only to find it empty. "Shit, I'm out," he grumbled as he dropped the bottle down beside the leg of the table.

"Hold on a sec," said Henrickson. "I've been saving something for a moment like this." So saying, he balanced his cigar on the edge of the ashtray, then rose from his seat and started towards the kitchen. As he approached the doorway, passing within two feet of Demona, the gargoyle considered grabbing him by the hair and slicing him open from sternum to crotch, then doing the same to the other two. _That _would certainly teach these humans to laugh at her expense.

Then Demona remembered the fay, and glanced at him out of the corner of her eye. He still stood by the card table, but he gave Demona a look like he knew what the gargoyle was thinking. Demona had no desire to be held under this thing's magic again, so she hooked her thumb talons into her belt and gritted her fangs as Henrickson walked past.

A few moments later, Henrickson reentered the room, three glasses in one hand, a bottle of sixty-year old bourbon, with only one-fifth still remaining, in the other. He walked back to the table and set the glasses almost reverently on its surface. He then divided the remnants of the bottle between the three, and when that was done, gave one each to Bruford and Harper, and picked up the last one for himself.

"Gentlemen," he said as he raised his own glass. "I'd like to propose a toast to our employer, Miss Destine. Yes, she's a cast iron bitch, but at least the job's never boring." He took a sip from his glass, and Harper followed suit.

Bruford regarded the well-aged liquor for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Honestly, the only reason I put up with the lady is because her quirks are so damn entertaining. That, and it pays pretty good. So, here's to her." So saying, he took a drink from his own glass.

"Entertaining?" laughed Harper. "Yeah, no kidding." He stiffened his posture a bit and started to speak in a bad impersonation of Nightstone's CEO. "I must have my beauty rest every night. Oh, and some dead bodies and a canister of industrial strength window cleaner. Move it, you idiots!"

All three shared a hearty laugh over that one. Henrickson picked his cigar back up and puffed on it thoughtfully for a moment. "Truth be told, guys," he said once the laughter had died down. "I was made an offer by the Quarrymen once. Salary was better, so I went to one of their rallies to check it out. I don't know, there was just something about that crackpot Castaway that put me off. I think that guy has a whole head full of bad wiring. I mean, don't get me wrong, both he and Destine are nuts. But at least our CEO is the fun kind of nuts. So, in the end, I'm glad I turned Castaway down. Here's to you guys." He raised his glass and then took another sip.

The others nodded, and raised their glasses as well. "Here's to future jobs," said Bruford.

"Which will probably include stealing some tea party dresses to go with Destine's corpse collection," added Harper.

The three of them laughed again, and then drained their glasses. "Merry Christmas, gentlemen," said Henrickson as he slammed his empty glass upside-down onto the tabletop. The other two followed suit, and responded in kind with well-wishes of their own.

Demona gave a low, menacing growl as she regarded the three of them, her eyes and wings flared. Speak about her thusly behind her back? These three would be in for quite a nasty surprise after New Year's.

The fay, meanwhile, regarded the scene with his same infuriating look as he produced his stick and gave it a few shakes out in front of him. How in the world he could bestow anything upon this cannon fodder was beyond the fiery-haired gargoyle.

"These three are useless, even among their own kind!" Demona growled at the spirit. "How can you give them anything?"

The fay stepped away from the table to stand once more beside Demona, but he continued to watch the three mercenaries as they resumed their game. "As I said, my gifts are bestowed upon anyone who feels a semblance of virtue in their hearts. These gentlemen might not have the most reputable jobs, but they are still friends with one another. And they still manage to feel some good, even for the likes of you."

"What are you talking about?" snapped Demona. "They insulted me! They already insult me with their existence, as all humans do. But these three actually dared to laugh at my expense!"

"And yet they still toasted you," said the spirit. "With a hundred-dollar bottle, no less! You see, even criminals have better things to do with their holiday. They're in here, spending it in each others' company, instead of out there, making peoples' lives miserable. There is still some spirit that burns in their hearts."

"I'm glad you showed me this," said Demona. "Now I can find a way to make them pay for their insults."

The fay shook his head, almost sadly this time. "Once again, you only choose to see what you want, which is the ugly side of humanity. But perhaps a visit to another one of your employees might show you something more."

Demona's eyes flared again, even as the being's vast cloak enveloped the both of them once more.

When the red faded from her vision, Demona found both herself and her companion standing in an apartment that was thankfully cleaner, and a bit more crowded. The pair stood in the foyer, where a large amount of boots had been heaped by the door, and the pegs on the wall overflowed with coats. Demona had a feeling that the tenant was normally unaccustomed to having so many people under their roof.

They heard enthusiastic conversation coming from somewhere else in the apartment, and the spirit immediately headed off in the direction of the noise. Demona was growing more annoyed with his jollity by the minute, but followed him nonetheless.

As she walked down the hallway, she caught a glimpse of a few of the pictures on the wall: a professional shot of a brown-haired girl, who looked to be about six or seven, in a communion dress; another picture of the same woman, her hair much longer, sitting in a college dorm room with three other girls, all of them with plastic beer cups raised high. Demona cocked her head at that last picture. She swore that the woman in it looked almost like her assistant at Nightstone, Erin Galloway.

More laughter was heard, slightly merrier this time, and also much closer. Demona guessed that that damn spirit had just finished spreading his magical poison about the place. She rounded a corner and entered a dining room that she guessed did not normally hold so many people.

Several extra leaves had been added to the table to accommodate all the people, pushing it back nearly to the walls. It had been laden with food, but the plates and wineglasses had been stacked in the adjoining kitchen to make room for the pie and coffee. Demona noticed her secretary sitting halfway down the table, clad in a bright green sweater and jeans, sitting in between an elderly looking male and female. The woman looked almost like Erin, except the face was more careworn, and the hair carried extra gray.

The rest of the table was occupied by people of ages ranging from five to seventy. Demona didn't recognize any of them. She was sure Erin might have mentioned them at one time or another, but the gargoyle hardly cared about the personal lives of her employees.

The spirit stood behind Erin and the two elderly people, Demona could only guess that they were the human's parents. Demona remained in the doorway, looking bored and perhaps a little uncomfortable with all the cheerfulness. But her sensitive hearing still picked up on the conversation at the other end.

"Erin, honey, I'm still amazed that you found time to put all this together, what with the way that boss of yours works you," said the old woman.

Erin shrugged and took a sip of Guinness from the pintglass resting in front of her. "Well, it is something that looks good on the résumé, mom," she said nonchalantly.

"I know, dear," her mother persisted. "But still, you can't let your job be the driving force in your life."

"Damn right," the old man chimed in. "Otherwise, you'll end up just like that whore you're workin' for!"

"Sean!" Erin's mother chided him.

"No mom, he has a point. You both do." Erin paused for a moment, and gave a tired sigh. "She can be an old crank. I've said as much myself, when she's not around. But the truth is, I kind of feel sorry for her."

Both of her parents, as well as those relatives within earshot, raised their eyebrows at her, but Erin seemed not to notice. "I'm serious," she went on. "Earlier today, she told me that she looks upon this time of year as stupid and meaningless. I really don't think she has anybody to be with. It's almost tragic. She doesn't seem to find any happiness in anything."

For a moment, Demona regarded her secretary with a quizzical look in her eyes. The human's words almost reminded her of her guide's, when the two of them stood in the rec room of the castle. Could the joy and happiness in this room really be any different?

She shook her head, as if to clear it. _Of course it could! _She re-affirmed with herself. _These people are human. Flawed, inferior! They can say all the kind words they want, but in the end the words are all the same: empty!_

Or were they? Demona had to admit, that she had never exactly treated Erin with a great deal of compassion. Not that she felt any remorse over that. Humans were cattle, after all. But for all the assistant knew, Demona was just a bitter, eccentric human who refused to be seen after dark. Plus, she didn't know that her employer was standing not ten feet away. What else would motivate her to say that?

Then Demona noticed that the fay had taken his stick out, and began to spread its magic across the length of the table. After a few moments had passed, Sean turned and rumpled his daughter's hair. "Ah, you're a good girl, Erin," he said as he raised his own glass of stout to her. "Merry Christmas."

Erin smiled and clinked her pintglass against his. "Merry Christmas to you too, daddy," she said in reply. With that, the conversation around the table resumed in earnest. The spirit made his way back around the table and came to stand in the doorway alongside Demona.

"Amazing, isn't it?" he said in his obnoxiously jovial tone. "You abuse your employee every day, and yet she still manages to feel some kindness for you."

Once again, seeing the fay spread his magic had brought suspicion to the forefront in Demona's mind. "Oh please," she snorted. "No doubt whatever you laced that magic wand of yours with was inspiring her to say that."

The bearded servant of Oberon chuckled heartily again, nearly bringing dangerous light into Demona's eyes. "You're forgetting, Demona, that my magic doesn't _create _these thoughts. They already exist in the minds and hearts of the people influenced by it. It only helps people to think and feel them more freely. No, the compassion your assistant has for you is genuine, whether you want it to be or not."

Demona shook her head, and eyed the fay warily. "If there's one thing I've learned, it's that trusting a child of Oberon is no less foolish than trusting a human."

Demona's response elicited even more laughter from the spirit. "Once again, Demona, you amaze me. I'm beginning to wonder if any of this is even getting through to you. But perhaps what we'll see next might be more illuminating." In a flash, Demona found herself enveloped in his billowing cloak once more. Worlds seemed to spin haphazardly about the both of them. And then, a split-second later, it was over.

Demona and the spirit were standing in a dim room, a room that was illuminated only by a large television set resting in one corner. Demona looked about her. It was not as dingy as the apartment where she'd encountered her three soon to be terminated employees, but it still looked lived-in nonetheless.

There was clothing heaped in the corner of the room opposite the television, and unwashed dishes on the counter of the kitchen that was connected the living room. An ironing board was set up next to the television, several pairs of navy blue slacks draped across it.

Demona glanced about the dim room, taking in the details with the enhanced sight of a gargoyle. Her gaze eventually came to rest on a familiar-looking object that was propped against a bookcase close to the TV: a modified sledgehammer.

Demona's eyes locked on it for a moment, scarlet filling her vision like hot blood. Then they were in the residence of one of the Quarrymen! Her gaze moved a few feet to the right, where a figure was hunched in an easy chair, watching the television.

The spirit had gone to stand behind the easy chair. After a moment, Demona moved to join him, the murderous light now burning brighter in her eyes. Just as she was about to close the distance between herself and the person in the chair, the fay took a step towards her, bringing himself in between the gargoyle and the chair's occupant.

Demona gave a feral snarl at the being, but he merely shook his head, and held one hand up in front of his face. Demona saw a slight sparkle on his fingertips, magical energy waiting to be released, and got the message. Annoyed, she crossed her arms and stamped one foot on the carpet like an agitated hatchling, but the person in the chair took no notice.

"We're in the home of someone you should be familiar with," said the spirit. "After all, he and his family have spent many frustrating centuries trying to kill you. You and all the gargoyles."

The fay moved aside, though he still held his hand at the ready, and allowed Demona to take a closer look at the man in the chair. Demona gazed past the being, and saw a blond human with a well-groomed moustache, who appeared to be somewhere in his twenties, sitting hunched forward over a tray table. On the table rested a snifter of brandy, an elaborate looking bottle, and more curiously, a small scrap of black cloth.

In his hands, the blond man held a framed picture that looked like it had been taken during some holiday season past. In it, a dark-haired man with a thick moustache sat in front of a fireplace, the mantle of which was adorned with stockings and candles. To his left sat a boy in his teens, who bore a very strong resemblance to the elder man, despite his lack of a moustache. To the right of the man sat a girl with long blond hair and piercingly brilliant eyes who looked only a few years younger than the teenage boy. There was something familiar about her, Demona noted. Almost too familiar. And in the man's lap sat a much smaller boy, who was also blond.

Everyone in the picture wore smiles on their faces, a far contrast from the straw-haired man who was holding it. Demona stepped around the chair slightly to get a better look at the man's face, and realized when she did that he was the blond boy in the picture. She also saw more clearly the scrap of cloth resting alongside his snifter, and noticed the fabric was punctuated by several strokes of red. A sign that Demona had learned to recognize easily down through the centuries.

Like dual flash-fires, the light leapt back into Demona's eyes. Then she _was_ in the presence of her nemesis, the human called Castaway! The fay momentarily forgotten, Demona started towards the human, but had only taken one step when she found herself frozen, and unable to move any extremities except her head.

Demona cast an annoyed look at the fay, still standing behind the easy chair, and found him grinning broadly. He held his index finger in front of his mouth and blew on it like the barrel of a gun.

"I must say, trickster," growled Demona, "That out of all the members of your race that have ever tormented me, you are undoubtedly the worst. You deliver my enemy to me, and then you prevent me from delivering him. Do you realize that I could cripple the Quarrymen with a single twist of the neck?"

The being laughed merrily. "And if I allowed that, what sort of Christmas spirit would I be? Besides, I had another reason for bringing you here."

"And what was that?"

For a moment, the smile went away from the bearded trickster's face. "Look at this human, Demona," he said solemnly, in a tone that made even the gargoyle do a double take. "Take a good look."

The force behind the spirit's voice compelled Demona to do as he asked. She looked down at Castaway, and was surprised to find that tears trickled down his cheeks. He hugged the picture close to his chest and sobbed quietly.

Demona looked into his eyes for only the briefest of moments, and beneath the tears, she did not like what she saw. There was a fire in them, a fire stoked by an all-consuming hatred, and a desire for retribution. Demona shuddered and quickly turned away. The look in Castaway's eyes was more familiar, and closer to home, than she wanted to admit.

Once again, the fay seemed to pick up on what Demona was thinking. "Perhaps you're seeing something of yourself in him, Demona?" he asked her. "He is someone else who has no one to be with on this otherwise joyous night, but the two of you have more in common than that."

At the fay's words, the deadly light burned anew in Demona's eyes. She glared at him with a look that took him aback slightly, despite her being frozen in place. "I am nothing like this human, and _don't you ever _compare me to him." Her voice was calm, but no less threatening than the light in her eyes.

"I'm sorry, Demona, but how can I not?" The fay's expression turned serious again. "Castaway has taken his hatred of only a few gargoyles and projected it onto your entire race as a means of avoiding responsibility for his own actions and compensating his weakness. How is that any different from what you are doing?"

"It's completely different!" snapped Demona. "Even before the Quarrymen, he and his family, and his ancestors down through the centuries, hated me and my kind! I've never understood why! And I think it's very likely that they have no reason! This, more than anything, _proves _why humans must be exterminated! Unlike him, my cause is just!"

"And is that cause worth the price you are paying?" asked the fay. "You and this human have each lost something important in your separate quests for revenge, through your own actions. It's put you both at odds with the ones you care about most."

Demona thought back to watching her former clanmates in the castle, and the fellowship and camaraderie that seemed to radiate from them. She looked again at the blond human sitting on the couch. John Castaway had since set the picture back down, and picked up his snifter. In one swift motion, he drained the rest of the liquid in the glass, and reached for the bottle to pour another. Upon finding the bottle empty, he suddenly sat up a bit straighter in the chair and flung it against the far wall, where it shattered into many fragments.

His outburst complete, he slumped forward over the tray table, his face buried in his hands. In spite of herself, Demona found her thoughts drifting back to the memory of her and her daughter on the rooftop, and Angela's words to her. And again, even though she tried to resist, the gargoyle recalled the shapeshifter's remarks about her choice for an access code back in the Fall of 1995. _Could it be you're not as happy in the life you've chosen as you'd like to think you are?_

Still, no sense in letting this _thing_ know that its magic was messing with her thoughts. "Angela simply can't see what I'm trying to do for her!" Demona protested. "None of the clan ever did. Someday, this human, all humans, will be the death of us! Since no one else will do it, its up to me to prevent this!"

The bearded trickster gave a small sigh. "It's probably a good thing you've never been to one of Castaway's rallies. His speeches might sound more familiar than you'd like them to."

Castaway had since pushed the tray table back from his chair and risen from his seat, the mask stuck in the back pocket of his slacks. He walked from the room in search of another bottle, leaving Demona alone with the fay. Demona's eyes began to burn again at the thought of her missed opportunity to slay the human.

"Once again, trickster, I must warn you _NOT _to compare me to Castaway!" she growled. "Otherwise, you _will_ live to regret your words!"

The bearded trickster shrugged. "As you wish. Just remember that Castaway is living with the choices he made. As are you. As do we all, both mortal and immortal."

Once again, the nagging voice in the corner of the gargoyle's mind made her recall the shapeshifter's words about memories, and choices. And again, Demona remembered seeing Angela both in the past and present. This time, however, the nagging was stronger, as if it were starting to grind her mental cogs.

Could Demona really be seeing herself in this human? Impossible. But at the same time, they both had clans, families that they had lost. They both had goals that put them at odds with almost everyone else in their worlds. Could those same feelings of loneliness really be different from human to gargoyle?

For the briefest of moments, Demona actually regretted her savage attack against her doppelganger, when it had made a similar parallel between the two species. Then her mind thought again of the bearded trickster that now held her in place. _No, he's just trying to make you regret it! _Demona told herself. _You can no more trust one of these magical abominations than you can a human_. Demona attempted to make this argument stick, like she'd done for most of the night, but this time, she was having some difficulty.

The whole time he was watching the gargoyle contemplate, the smile on the trickster's face had grown wider. Now, even through his beard, Demona could tell that it threatened to split his head in half. "Is something finally clicking, Demona?" he asked.

"Go hang yourself," Demona retorted. But the words did not come out with as much force as she was hoping for.

The fay picked up on this immediately. But instead of speaking, he stepped over to her side and wrapped them both in his cloak once more.

There was a brief instant of red haze, and then they found themselves standing on a city sidewalk. Demona, who'd regained the use of her limbs after emerging from her guide's cloak, nearly toppled off the curb to the cold, damp asphalt. She took a moment to compose herself and then looked around. The snow had stopped falling, and much of what was in the roads had turned into brown slush from the wheels of countless automobiles.

But despite this, Demona had never seen Manhattan looking so peaceful. Of course, she usually was not out and about at this time of year, instead using the quiet of Christmas Eve to pore through her archive of magical volumes or, more recently, to brush up for the meetings that always filled her Nightstone calendar at the end of the quarter.

Now, as she looked up and down the sidewalk, Demona regarded the scene with just a little curiosity, in spite of herself. The streets were almost empty, and what few humans still remained on them walked with purposeful strides, anxious to be with a friend or loved one. The gargoyle searched their faces, and did not find any hate or malice etched on them at all.

The lights that she had seen earlier while gliding over the city seemed to glow more warmly down at ground level, glittering off the pure white snow still blanketing the sidewalks. It was a face that Demona never knew that the city could wear.

"Isn't it something?" The fay asked, his voice filled with awe. "An island with this many humans crammed onto it, and yet right at this moment, it is completely at peace. I bet you didn't know this race was capable of something such as this."

Demona almost found herself enjoying the scene, until the fay reminded her of his presence. "Who says that I'm willing to admit they are?" She snapped defensively. "This… still changes nothing."

For a moment, the trickster regarded her with a contemplative look as he stroked his beard. "Change is one of the few certainties in life, Demona. Sometimes it may take a while, but it does happen. You've already seen the course of your actions in the past, and the changes they have brought about now. But change is ongoing, ever constant. You know that one cannot change what was. But one is not powerless to change what may become."

"You mean when humanity has been destroyed, and all of my kind praises me for the utopia that I will someday bring about?" Demona asked.

The bearded fay regarded Demona for a moment with an amused smile on his face. "Something like that," he answered slyly. "But it's not really my place to elaborate further. I'm afraid that my time here grows short. I do have other rounds to make."

He stood a bit straighter, put his thumb and forefinger into his mouth, and whistled loudly. A moment later, a grand white horse seemed to gallop from out of nowhere, stopping right in front of the spirit. Its coat was even more pristine than the snow that lay round about. Sprigs of holly and mistletoe adorned its flowing mane and tail.

As Demona watched, the trickster leapt onto the polished saddle on its back, and the horse cocked back its head in the direction of its master. The fay smiled, pulled a carrot from out beneath his cloak, and fed it to his mount.

"Remember, Demona," he said to her. "The past is over and done with. Nothing can alter or repair it. But the future is not set in stone. And the time that is to come is defined by our actions in the present. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

"Wait!" Demona interjected, her mind barely registering the trickster's words. "You're just leaving me here?"

"Yes," the fay stated matter-of-factly. Then, with a hint of sarcasm, added, "You wouldn't want to tag along anyway. Mostly I'll be spreading cheer to even more 'undeserving' and 'inferior' humans. Besides, you won't be alone for long." He winked at her and took the horse's reins in his hands.

"Oh, and one more thing," he added. "Merry Christmas!" So saying, he spurred his majestic steed into movement. Demona watched them gallop down the avenue until they seemed to vanish from sight.

For a moment, the azure gargoyle just stood there with her feet in the snow, fuming. Finally, she huffed in the direction of the departing trickster. "Good riddance," she spat, then glanced around to try and figure out where she was.

Her first instinct was to look at the faces of the humans still on the street. None of them seemed to notice her presence, as yet. Demona's experience as a magic-user led her to surmise that she was still experiencing the residual effects of the bearded trickster's spell that had rendered them invisible. She needed to get airborne before it wore off.

Her gaze shifted to the skyline, studying the positions of the buildings. She should be able to figure out which direction home was from here. So intent was she on looking up that she did not notice the excessive amount of mist that began to rise from the storm gratings on the streets. None of the passing humans seemed to notice either as the tepid vapor blanketed the surrounding area, blocking out even the cheery light from the decorations.

Demona, looking upwards, did not even regard the gathering mist until it was too late. Her gaze snapped down suddenly in alarm, and she did not even have time to scream as the fog enveloped her completely…

**To be concluded in Part 3…**


	3. Chapter 3

**Tis The Season, Act III**

By Harvester of Eyes special thanks to D. Taina for helping with the concept.

Legal Mumbo-Jumbo: All the characters appearing in _Gargoyles _and _Gargoyles: The Goliath Chronicles_ are copyright Buena Vista Television/The Walt Disney Company. No infringement of these copyrights is intended, and is not authorized by the copyright holder. All original characters are the property of the author. This work is being distributed freely and without any financial gain whatsoever.

Warning: What with this being a Christmas tale, I did my very best to make this one enjoyable for all ages, but there might be a few small things that may not be for kids, including random acts of violence against reindeer. It's rated PG, but parents: you can judge for yourselves. Hell, that's what you should be doing anyway. They're _your_ kids.

As with everything I write, comments are welcome, but I do ask that you not over-analyze this one. It's intended to be little more than satire (dark satire at best, but that's always been my favorite), so lighten up and just try to enjoy it. And I apologize in advance to that master of the English language, the late Mr. Dickens.

…Demona, looking upwards, did not even regard the gathering mist until it was too late. Her gaze snapped downward in alarm, and she did not even scream as the fog enveloped her completely…

It was like being wrapped in a cocoon of gauze. Demona could still move, but could not see more than an inch in front of her, did not even know which way was up any more. She sniffed the condensed air, but her nostrils could not discern much save for the warm, moist odor of the vapor that surrounded her.

She moved slowly in a tight circle, arms and tail poised in a fighting stance, but even if the fog did contain an attacker, Demona knew that she would not be able to sense it until it was right on top of her, and chances are by then it would be too late.

A potent mixture of rage, anxiety, and self-loathing coursed through her veins like honeyed wine. She knew that this was likely the result of the bearded fay's magic, and Demona cursed herself a fool in several tongues for allowing herself to fall victim to it. Especially given her recent dealings with the Third Race.

After what felt like a tense eternity, the mist slowly began to subside. As it pulled back from around the azure gargoyle, she saw the streets of the city come into view again, only now the color appeared drained from them. It was as if someone had taken a magical solvent and blotted the vibrant hues out from the heart of the city, leaving only a dull gray behind.

What was worse was that the humans still on the street took no notice at how monochromatic the world had become. Demona looked down at herself, saw that the color on her own skin and clothing had not faded like all the rest. But instead of feeling relief at that, the gargoyle only felt her stomach turning sour. True, the spirits she had been visited by were making her feel uncomfortable all night, but this time, she actually felt real dread. Like something ugly was about to happen.

She spun suddenly on the balls of her taloned feet to make for the gray brick wall behind her, consumed by a desire to get home. Maybe if she just lay in bed for a few hours, head buried under her pillow, all of this would go away…

She jumped in surprise as she turned, giving a small yelp. Standing behind her, not more than three feet away, was a figure dressed very simply in a red robe that covered its entire body. Like Demona, his own pallor seemed completely unaffected by whatever had faded the color from the rest of the city.

The being was tall, at least a foot taller than Demona, perhaps surpassing even Goliath in height. Demona peered up at its face, and found it buried beneath a cowl. No, actually, looking into the opening of the cowl was like looking into a bottomless maw that absorbed all light. If this thing even had a face, Demona could not make it out.

She took in a deep, calming breath. The being was intimidating, but no sense in letting it know that. She caped her wings and then cocked her head to one side, appearing in control. "I suppose you're another of the Puck's friends?" She asked it.

The being, arms folded across its chest and hands buried beneath its robe, only gave a slight nod in reply. It was unnerving, Demona admitted to herself, but at the same time, also refreshing. At least this meant that it might not give her any inane moral lectures like the other two. "And I guess you have some things to show me?"

Another nod.

Demona gave an exasperated sigh. Already, she had figured out that this being was probably using a spell to mask all the color in the city, in an effort to unnerve her. "All right, might as well get it over with, then. After all, the sooner I let you fulfill whatever obligations you have to Puck, the sooner we can both get on with our lives."

The being just stood there, not making any sound. It did not even nod its head. Demona regarded it for a moment, then spoke again. "I mean, that would probably be easiest for both of us. I don't have anything to use against you at the moment, and you probably won't let me just glide home, not without making me see something first." In truth, Demona was only speaking at this point to cut through the silence, which the thing seemed to be trying to use as a weapon.

There was none of the sarcasm that Demona had come to expect from the Children of Oberon. The being continued to just stand there without speaking. Finally, it uncrossed its arms and raised a hand. As the sleeve fell back down the being's wrist, Demona noticed how thin, almost skeletal, the hand appeared. The gargoyle could make out each individual bone in the palm. Once again, the unease crept back into her, but she did her best to mask it.

After a moment, the being traced a circle in the air with one slender finger, and a portal yawned open a few yards from where the two of them stood. The being looked down, as if it were scrutinizing Demona beneath its cowl, and pointed at the gaping mouth of the portal.

"And where exactly does that lead?" Demona asked, trying to sound indignant.

Still no reply. The being simply pointed at the portal more fervently.

Demona stood there another moment and chewed thoughtfully on her pinky talon, considering. She had no way of knowing where this thing led, and every part of her being told her that a trap waited on the other side. She regarded her mute companion again, and then remembered the Puck's words from earlier.

_I mean, Future could give Preston Vogel lessons on being wooden! _She thought about the other two visitors and what they'd shown her, and the bearded trickster's parting words from a few minutes ago. Finally, she spoke again to the hooded wraith.

"I suppose that you want to show me things that will someday happen, and that's where this leads to?" Demona cocked her head at the portal.

A nod.

The gargoyle gave a frustrated sigh. "Might as well get this over with, then. It's been a long night and I'm very tired." So saying, she started towards the portal, the being falling into silent step just alongside.

The maw spun slowly before her, almost hypnotic, swirling with colors even darker than the shades of gray around her. Against her better judgment, Demona proceeded forward, as if the portal willed her towards it. When both she and the being had stepped through its threshold, the swirling gestalt of darkness seemed to cover them like a velvety blanket of obsidian. As the darkness bore down from all sides, Demona actually felt something she did not think it possible for a gargoyle to feel: cold. It was a terrifying sensation, in some ways more unpleasant than her daily transformations.

Finally, they made their way to what appeared to be the other side of the portal, and emerged into a scene almost identical to the one they had left. It was the same street, washed in the same colorless palette, but after a few moments of scrutiny, Demona found many things wrong with it.

For one thing, all of the Christmas decorations were gone. For another, all of the humans were gone, as well. Demona looked down at the sidewalk beneath her taloned feet, and found it to be cracked and weathered with age, the cracks overgrown with weeds.

Demona looked up again, and saw even more vegetation poking up through similar blemishes in the asphalt of the pavement. Vehicles of a make Demona was not familiar with lined the street, much sleeker than any automobile the gargoyle had ever seen. But even these high-tech cars appeared corroded from age and disuse. Demona saw the same signs of wear and corrosion on the buildings as well, which also appeared sleeker, constructed of the same shimmering material, like modern art sculptures. As with the cars parked on the streets, they too stood empty and decaying, like the relics of a long extinct civilization. It looked futuristic, but at the same time, very old as well.

All was still and silent. What had happened here? More importantly, what year was it? Demona gave an expectant look at the being, who still stood right behind, but as usual, he kept dumb.

"Where are we?" she asked it. "Is this Manhattan?"

An affirmative nod.

"More importantly, when are we?"

No response to that one, not even a slight movement.

Demona did not waste time waiting for it to give one. Instead, she continued to take in the crypt-like details of the seemingly abandoned city. As she took a few cautious steps down the sidewalk and approached the corner of the building, what she saw made her comparison of this future Manhattan to a crypt take on a whole new dimension.

The skeletons of several dozen humans, bleached and corroded by the elements, their clothing long ago rotted to dust, were strewn across the neglected pavement. Some lay in the fetal position, others on their backs with bony arms arranged in pathetic defensive stances. She took in the grisly details with no small amount of glee etched on her face. Seeing dead humans always brought a smile to her lips, even if it was only in visions.

Demona continued up the street, finding even more decayed corpses along the pavement and walkway. She paused to peer into one of the parked cars, and saw a skeleton slumped over a steering column that had no wheel, only a bank of lights that had long ago faded. In the back seat were the crumbling skeletons of two small children, still wrapped snugly into their seatbelts.

Demona turned away from the car, feeling even more elated, and then jumped suddenly when she found that the hooded spirit had once again crept silently up behind her, and was standing not a few feet away.

"Stop doing that!" Demona snapped at it. This time, the figure gave a slight shake of its head.

_Damn these things! _The gargoyle fumed to herself. Her guide was stiff as a board, but still, beneath its robes and emaciated frame beat the heart of a trickster.

"So, what am I looking at?" asked Demona, ignoring the being's attempt at humor. "Is it like this only in Manhattan, or all over the world?"

The figure pointed at something slightly to its left, and Demona turned to face the side of a crumbling brick building, its edges overrun with vines of ivy. On the wall's broad surface, images started to flash like slides from a projector. In the images, Demona saw the streets of several cities that she recognized: Athens, London, Paris, Moscow, Dublin, Beijing, Santiago; and several more, most of them places she'd been in her impossibly long life.

In all of the images, she saw what she was witnessing in Manhattan: streets and buildings crumbling under the weight of decay, strewn with the bones of those long-dead. And with each image she saw, the feeling of rapture grew within her.

"Then, humanity is no more?" she eagerly asked the being. "Someday, I _will_ succeed in eliminating their useless race?"

The being responded with neither a nod or a shake. Rather, he pointed skyward. Demona followed his finger, and spotted a large winged shape passing by overhead. Demona watched as it flew to a very familiar looking structure that seemed to dwarf all other buildings on the skyline.

The Eyrie Building. Could Goliath, Angela, and the others still be alive? If so, then surely they must be enjoying the gift that Demona had bestowed upon them and all the gargoyles: a world devoid of humans.

"So, our race has survived?" Demona asked her guide, although it was not a question. "I suppose I shouldn't be surprised," she added. "After all, there are no more humans about to shatter them during the day."

The being made another circle in the air with its outstretched hand, and like a tear in a cloth, another portal seemed to grow out of the air before them. The being then pointed to the portal, its gaze set on Demona. Cautiously, though not as hesitant as she'd been last time, the azure gargoyle stepped through it.

After an unpleasant moment, she emerged into more familiar, though no less faded surroundings. Both she and the hooded fay were on the battlements of Castle Wyvern, looking down into the courtyards.

The stones of the castle seemed to be falling into the same state of neglect that afflicted the other structures in Manhattan, the walls overrun with carpets of ivy. Also, unless it was Demona's imagination, the gargoyle could swear that the ground she stood on leaned at a slight angle, as did the wall on the other side of the courtyard. Almost like the building itself was tilted.

Demona looked back down into the courtyard, in the center of which a low, curved firepot had been erected. Four gargoyles whom Demona did not recognize sat around the fire and did not speak, almost as if they were studying the flames. One of them in particular caught Demona's eye. It was a gargoyle that bore a very faint resemblance to Angela, except its skin was bluish green in color, the hair several shades lighter, and the wings were broader and possessed only one finger on their tips instead of three. Also, it did not have its tresses in the conservative braid favored by Angela, instead letting its hair flow freely like Demona's.

The more Demona studied the other three, the more that they looked vaguely familiar, as well. One was yellow and hairless, but with a beak very much like Brooklyn's, another was small in stature, with white hair, deep blue skin, and dual-wings like a butterfly's. The fourth was tan-colored, and bore a strong resemblance to the monstrosity Delilah, except that the hornets on its brow were more prominent, and the coat it wore trailed down to its ankles and was specially cut in the back to accommodate the tail.

As different as they appeared, Demona saw one trait that they all shared: a look of emptiness in their eyes, like beings whose lives had been stripped of purpose. For a moment, confusion played upon the gargoyle's face. She could not imagine why they would look so downtrodden. The infection of humanity had been excised, and the dominance of herself and her kind was assured.

The gloom was finally broken by the sound of taloned footfalls making their way across the overgrown courtyard. In the stillness of the empty city, the sound traveled far, and Demona felt the same sense of unease from earlier creep back into her.

A fifth gargoyle, tall with magenta skin and webbed wings, walked over to the edge of the firepot and plunked itself down in an empty space, joining the party. "Well, I've checked and rechecked those support struts," it told the others. "Too much weather damage. It's not safe to stay here another day."

This stirred the otherwise placid group into protest. The tan Delilah look-alike was the first to voice it. "You can't mean…" she started

"I'm afraid I do," the tall, web-winged gargoyle cut her off. "We have to leave this castle. There's too much of a risk that it will go sliding off the main plate while we sleep. If we're caught in stone when that happens…" His voice trailed off, but both he and the others knew there was no need to finish the sentiment.

"Wonderful," muttered the blue-green gargoyle with reflections of Angela. When it spoke, its voice sounded like an odd merging of Angela and Demona's. "First, we lose all purpose in life. Now, we lose our final tie to what we once had." She sighed bitterly and began to poke the fire with a long metal skewer. "Honestly, what's the point of going on?"

"Maybe it's for the best," said the blue, dual-winged gargoyle. "We keep dwelling on the past too much. Our ancestors always said that the past can't be changed. Maybe we should just start looking forward."

"To what?" the cyan gargoyle argued. "What do we possibly have to look forward to? We used to have a city to protect, a city full of life. Now, we're the caretakers of a damned crypt!"

As she was talking, Demona had leapt from her perch down into the courtyard until she was standing almost over the shoulder of the familiar-looking female. From where Demona now stood, she could see the eyes of those gathered round the fire more clearly, and she suddenly found an old memory echoing in their mind, words Goliath had spoken during a skirmish on the George Washington Bridge.

_Gargoyles protect. It is our nature, our purpose. To lose that is to be corrupt, empty, lifeless._

Mentally, Demona took a step back. She started to understand why these gargoyles might actually miss humans, but it still didn't make sense. How could it be the nature of her kind to protect? After all, she had survived just fine for a millennium protecting no one except herself. And it wasn't as if the humans they protected were ever grateful for their service. How could these nameless few still feel anything for them?

"I understand how you all feel," spoke the tall, magenta gargoyle again. "But the fact is, none of us are engineers. Unless we can find a way to fix the structural damage in the next three hours, we have no choice."

The beaked gargoyle, who had been silent during the entire exchange, suddenly cleared his throat and glanced up. "Look who's come back for attention," he grumbled. "The one who made our lives miserable."

The faces around the fire turned in Demona's direction, and for a moment, the immortal gargoyle took a step back, thinking that they could see her. Then she realized that they weren't looking at her, but rather over her shoulder, and up in the direction of the parapet.

Demona turned and followed their gaze, just in time to see a familiar-looking gargoyle with hair like wildfire land on the flagstones. Demona quickly realized that she was looking at a future version of herself, albeit with a slight alteration: the figure in the vision wore a gold-colored breastplate in place of the usual halter. The future-Demona looked down at the assembled gargoyles with expectancy, almost pleading, in her eyes.

As quickly as they looked up, the five gargoyles looked back at the fire, focusing intently on it. "Pretend you don't see her," said the female gargoyle with blue-green skin.

The confusion that slowly crept up on her a few moments ago was now striking Demona with the force of a tidal wave. She scanned the circle of gargoyles, who all pretended to be studying the rim of the firepot, and then she looked back up at her future self, crouched at the edge of the parapet.

The future image focused on the gargoyles below almost as hard as they stared at the fire. It looked as if it was searching for something in their eyes, as if even a look of hatred from one of them would be gratifying. But no. She was shut out completely.

Finally, after only a few minutes that seemed to draw out like a rusted blade, the future vision of Demona sadly took wing from the parapet and glided off into the cold moonlight, her shrill cry rending the air as she soared away. There was no anger or contempt in the scream at all, only unfathomable despair.

Gradually, Demona became aware that her hooded companion was standing alongside her once more. She looked at him, hoping for a few preachy words, anything that would break the silence, but he only pointed at the unhappy company of gargoyles around the fire.

Again, Demona's mind seemed fit to burst from confusion. Why was this happening? She had succeeded in destroying humanity. These gargoyles should have been regarding her as a savior. Why then, was she denied her rightful place among them? Goliath's words on the bridge repeated in her head again, stronger than before.

"No," she said out loud, half to the spirit. "It can't be like this all over the world. These gargoyles are too much like Goliath. They've been corrupted by his influence."

The fay responded by opening another portal in front of Demona, and gesturing to it. Demona warily stepped through the portal, still shaken by what she had seen. But she tried to take comfort in the fact that surely, gargoyles elsewhere would appreciate what she had done.

Both the gargoyle and her guide emerged from the portal into surroundings far more pastoral, but no less faded, than those they had just left. Demona studied the style of the buildings and estimated that it must be a village somewhere in Japan.

Like Manhattan, the walls of the buildings were cracked and infested with creeping vegetation, but the streets were devoid of human remains. Demona cast a quizzical glance at her guide, and he merely gave a customary point of his skeletal finger. The gargoyle followed its direction, and saw that it looked to be pointing towards the village square.

Cautiously, though making no effort to be silent, she walked towards the center of the village, heart hammering in her chest. As she emerged into the plaza that was once the bustling center of industry for the island, she gasped in horror at what she saw.

The bodies of gargoyles, freshly slain, had been lined up on their backs beneath a row of cherry trees. The normally cheerful pink blossoms of the trees were devoid of color as sure as the beings that rested beneath them were devoid of breath. Each gargoyle was dressed in a white robe, their arms folded across their chests. Small stones rested over their eyelids, weighting them shut.

Once the horror of what she was seeing subsided, Demona's eyes began to gleam like deep fires. The humans had done this!

_That doesn't make sense_, the tiny voice in back of her mind argued. _The humans are all dead. How _could _they have done this?_ Demona stopped and pondered that for a moment, her rage temporarily abated. As she peered closer at the mausoleum that the town square had become, she realized that a few living gargoyles still moved among the fallen, but Demona did not want to see what they might be doing.

She had to get away from this. She turned to the mute fay who now stood alongside her, a silent plea etched on her face. But, he merely stood there and pointed at the Japanese gargoyles. Demona started towards him, wings unfurled and talons splayed like knives. The being simply waved an emaciated hand at the gargoyle's feet.

A second later, Demona felt a slight tingle, like thousands of needles jabbing her skin, that started in the tips of her foot talons and moved very slowly up the well-muscled flesh of her calves and thighs. The feeling enveloped the lower half of her body, and gradually, Demona became aware that her legs had turned her around and that she was walking towards the scene beneath the cherry blossoms.

Demona shut her eyes tight for a moment, tried to concentrate, but it seemed that every message her brain created, ordering her feet to stop, was silenced before it reached its destination. She looked back at the fay, and saw it standing with hand outstretched, wiggling its fingers like a hellish puppeteer. Cursed trickster!

Demona's legs finally stopped moving when she was standing just beneath the shade of the trees, but the prickling sensation in them did not subside. She attempted to turn away, and found herself rooted in place. With no choice but to watch, she stood there and focused on the gargoyles who were still alive, not wanting to look at the dead ones.

Demona noticed that the two gargoyles who were still living were dressed in the same white kimonos as those whose corpses they tended. Each also wore a belt with a long, thin dagger buckled onto it. Demona saw them move purposefully from body to body, straightening the legs, crossing the arms over the chests, and weighting the eyes shut. In their own eyes, Demona saw the same feeling of emptiness that the gargoyles in Manhattan had all displayed, but she also saw something else in them: a look of peace.

Finally, each corpse had been tended to, and in movements that looked almost rehearsed, both gargoyles made their way to the nearest tree and knelt side by side beneath its blossoms.

"This world has nothing more to offer our kind," said the one on the left.

The one on the right nodded. "Before she who will not be named spread her poison across the face of the planet, we had a purpose to our lives, and that purpose was here in this village."

"There is no more purpose for us here, or anywhere else," said the one on the left again. "Therefore, we will do like the rest of our departed rookery brothers and sisters, and take our leave of this life devoid of purpose, and of honor."

Each spoke not a word as they drew their daggers in almost perfect synchronization and held them outstretched, blades turned inward and pointing at their hearts.

"For Ishimura!" they both spoke as one. Then, they thrust the daggers towards their chests even as they pushed their bodies forward, each bearing their weight upon the blades to drive them home.

"No!" Demona shouted a second before they impaled themselves, but the two Japanese gargoyles took no notice. Their eyes and faces were stoic masks of calm even as the blades pierced their chests and the blood began to spurt. A bright red stained both the bleached white of their attire and the faded gray of the grass beneath them. Finally, the two gargoyles pitched forward, their bodies shuddering with a few last vestiges of life. Then they each gave one final spasm and lay still.

The tingling sensation left Demona's legs, but the immortal gargoyle was too heart-heavy to notice. She stood there, buried her face in her hands, and cried. Even though she knew it should be wasted effort, she couldn't stop it. She tried to rationalize, to tell herself that these were gargoyles who had also clearly lost their way, if they couldn't even live without humans to protect. The influence of Goliath had obviously reached this clan, meaning that the whole gargoyle race was better off without them.

So why was it that Demona could not stop crying for them? _Angela follows Goliath's ideals, _the nagging voice spoke again. _She believes in the good in humanity, and finds purpose in protecting them. Would the world be better off without her?_

"No," Demona whispered the answer to her own question, voice quavering. But, the other half of her reasoned, Angela was different. She could still be made to see… couldn't she?

Demona turned her gaze to the side, away from the fresh, twitching corpses, but still she found herself unable to abate the tears. She ran to the nearest wall, leaned against it, and covered her eyes with her arm, fighting for control of her emotions.

A few minutes later, the tears had stopped, but the storm of nagging questions continued to rampage in her mind. She took a heavy breath, once more cursing the silence. At least some noise would distract her from the questions, the heavy doubts that now gnawed upon her

The spirit stepped up to her side, but as usual provided no answers. Instead, it merely extended a hand out before it, and opened yet another portal. Demona took a moment to wipe the tears from her face, and once she had composed herself, she stepped through the portal's lip, eager to leave this dim abattoir far behind her.

The scene they stepped into was no more comforting. Both Demona and the hooded fay emerged onto a windswept field, even more barren of life than the city they had just left. The skyline of Manhattan could be seen on the horizon, but somehow, it looked even more dead from a distance than it did up close.

The trees in the field bloomed, but no birds sang in them. Not even the lazy hum of insects could be heard, only the lifeless sigh of the wind. But soon another sound could be heard, carried on the breeze. The sound of sobbing. Demona turned in the direction of the sound, which came from a nearby tree only a few hundred yards off, and saw someone crouched underneath it.

The fay pointed to the figure beneath the tree, but this time, Demona did not need any sort of magic to urge her forward. She stepped cautiously towards the tree, until she could make out the unmistakable shock of red that flowed down the figure's back.

It was Demona's future-self, weeping even louder than Demona had done only a few moments ago. In the shade of the tree, Demona could make out what appeared to be a tombstone only a few feet from where the future image of herself knelt. She paused where she stood, only a hair's breadth from the shadow cast by the tree, unwilling to step across the line that divided the dismal gloom of the shade from the slightly brighter gloom of the gray moonlight.

In her hesitation, the fay had come up to her side. He pointed fervently at the tombstone, and Demona swallowed, trying to think of something to say. Her mind failed her, already reeling as it was from the harsh truths it had absorbed thus far.

Finally, after steeling herself, she stepped into the tree's shade, until she stood just over her future image, and peered at the smooth but weathered granite. ANGELA was etched on its surface in simple lettering.

For a moment, Demona just stood there, not knowing what to think. Part of her reasoned that it was natural for Angela to be dead, since they were looking at the future. This was the reason that another part of her was filled with disappointment, as Demona had always secretly hoped that Angela might still someday be made to see the truth. And when that day came, even though her daughter was mortal, Demona was certain she had something in her vast collection of magical literature that could take care of that. Still another part of her possessed a longing to know if Angela had lived to see the humans perish. If she had, then surely her daughter had come to realize that Demona was right all along.

Demona tried to take comfort in this fact, doing her best to ignore her future self crying at her feet. She was almost succeeding, and then she saw the future image reach out for the gravestone with one arm, resting its talons lovingly on the smoothly-chiseled edge.

"Forgive me," future-Demona sobbed, and buried its face in its hand once more. Almost as quickly as she'd regained it, the present Demona's calm began to shatter once more.

Forgive her? Why did Demona need to be forgiven by her own daughter? She'd never tried to do anything but what was best for Angela. True, she had been rough at times, and it pained her to do it, but the ends still justified the means. Demona's head reeled again, threatening to buckle under the outside pressure. Everything she had come to expect, to anticipate of the future was being challenged. This couldn't be true, it just couldn't…

"The time for forgiveness is long past," spoke a familiar voice. Demona whirled, and saw a human with a snow-white beard, which stood out starkly against his black coat, striding towards the tree with grim, purposeful steps. Macbeth!

For a moment, Demona did a double-take when she saw he had a wicked-looking energy pistol drawn, and seemingly pointed right at her heart. Then she remembered her future-self, and saw that_ that_ Demona had gotten to her feet and stood by the gravestone in a battle-ready posture, as if shielding it.

"Macbeth!" Future-Demona snarled, its tears evaporated at the sight of her former ally.

"Aye, Demona," the immortal Scot said with a slight nod, stopping a few paces from the tree. Both he and future-Demona went on with their exchange as if the hooded fay and the real Demona were not present. "I might have known you'd be here. Terrible thing to lose a child, wouldn't you agree, my old friend?"

"What could you possibly know about it?" future-Demona retorted.

The look on Macbeth's face suddenly grew cold and deadly. "You dare to ask me that question? It was through your treachery that I lost my son!"

"_My_ treachery?" A battle-light leapt into future-Demona's eyes, gleaming like twin rubies against the gray.

Macbeth shook his head. "I'm tired of arguing this. We finish it now!" So saying, he raised the pistol and fired. The shot struck future-Demona square in the chest. Her breastplate took the brunt of the shot, but still she flew back, slammed against the tree trunk, and collapsed, wisps of smoke rising from her body.

Macbeth's own body shuddered and spasmed from the blow, but he kept his footing. Dismayed, he approached the crumpled body of his adversary and aimed the gun at her head, preparing to fire again.

Without warning, future-Demona's tail lashed out, wrapped itself around his wrist, and gave a yank just as Macbeth squeezed the trigger. His shot missed the intended target and instead struck future-Demona on the right shin, scattering small bits of roasted flesh amidst the grass. The former monarch grimaced and clenched his teeth from an unseen pain, his right leg buckling. The gun clattered from his hands to the soft grass at their feet.

As he dropped to one knee, Demona's future image rose unsteadily to its feet, and rapped its talons once against her now dented breastplate. From where the present Demona stood watching, the smoldering wound on her future-self's leg looked excruciatingly painful, but her image seemed to be focusing somehow.

Though Macbeth's own leg was on fire, he swam through the fog of pain quicker than future-Demona anticipated. As future-Demona began to turn on her good leg, and start scaling the tree to get airborne, Macbeth pulled a dagger from his boot and lunged forward. Future-Demona tried to twist out of its way, and managed to avoid a fatal stab, but the blade still found purchase in the unguarded flesh of the gargoyle's belly.

Future-Demona screamed in pain as Macbeth buried the knife up to its hilt, a pain which he echoed a moment later. The old king doubled over on his knees as an invisible white-hot lance sliced into his bowels.

Summoning a will forged through centuries of survival, future-Demona fought through its own pain and yanked the knife free. Blood began to flow from the wound, running down the gargoyle's leg and staining the grass bright red. Using one taloned hand to cover the tear in its abdomen, the future image leapt onto the tree trunk and began climbing with its free hand, using both the good leg and the injured one. Though her life force was steadily draining from her, leaving deep crimson streaks on the bark of the tree, future-Demona paid it no heed, her mind possessed by mortal terror. Her body was on fire from the hips down, but she still forced herself up the side of the tree.

Once future-Demona was in the topmost branches, it leapt towards the heavens, blood still dripping from its wound, and caught the breezes on its wings. Macbeth, on the ground, somehow managed to focus amidst considerable agony to the point where he pulled one of his standard lightning guns from the pocket of his coat, and calmly aimed it at the departing gargoyle.

On the ground, Demona nearly cried out in protest as Macbeth fired at her future self. Demona's future image got only a few hundred feet from the tree when the beam of electricity struck home on the sensitive flesh between its wings. Both it and Macbeth gave a cry of anguish, and then future-Demona's wounded body fell from the heavens to land with a sickening crunch against the unyielding earth. Macbeth's own body jerked violently, and then he pitched forward onto the grass and lay still.

Demona stood there in silence, Macbeth crumpled on the ground before her. For a long moment, she just stared at his body, barely able to breathe. Then, through the blood pounding in her ears, she heard the sounds of faint moaning being carried on the wind. Somewhere in the tall grass, several meters from where they stood, she knew that her own body lay, teetering on the brink of a death Demona had learned to doubt would ever come.

At the gargoyle's feet, Macbeth slowly stirred. Using an iron discipline which rivaled that of his former ally, the once High King of Scotland clenched his teeth, willed himself to move against the pain. Taking up the bloodied knife in one hand and his gun in the other, the black-clad figure hobbled towards the source of the moaning with slow, determined steps, like an avenging reaper.

Demona turned away, not wanting to watch herself die. After everything she had worked for, everything she was going to achieve, it just couldn't end like this. The realization battered her brain even harder than her future image's words to Angela's grave. What did it all mean?

As Demona turned, she came face to concealed face with the hooded fay once more, who had stood there like a grim sentinel during the entire exchange. The being, as it had done since Demona first met it, pointed over Demona's shoulder, towards the dual execution that was about to take place. As Demona peered into the dark, ethereal depths of his cowl, the relentless torrent in her mind silenced itself, leaving the gargoyle with only a single, razor-fine moment of clarity.

_Yes, of course!_ She thought. _It's so obvious! What a fool I've been! Why didn't I see this before?_ Suddenly, Demona knew exactly what she had to do. It was clear to her.

Nervously, Demona licked her lips. "I understand why I was shown all of this," she calmly addressed the fay. "I'm no longer the gargoyle I once was. Everything I've seen tonight has helped me to realize something. It's so painfully simple now. I know what I must do."

Slowly, she dropped to her knees, took hold of the edges of the fay's robes, her eyes glistening. "Take me back home, please. You and the others have helped me to see what has to be done to prevent this from happening. There might still be time!"

A protracted silence, during which the fay seemed to be regarding her. Then it slowly nodded its head, and snapped the fingers on its left hand. The sound reverberated through the still meadow like a gunshot, and for a moment, Demona's vision was ensconced in a curtain of white.

When the brilliance faded, Demona looked around, still on her knees, and found herself and the hooded trickster in the living room of her residence. Both the fir tree and the splendid repast that had been left behind by the spirit of Christmas were gone, but there was still a fire in the fireplace, burning low. The color had also been once more restored to the world.

Demona knelt there for a minute, eyes shining with relief, happy to be home and in the present. Then she remembered that her silent guide was still in the room with her. Slowly, Demona rose to her feet, smiled warmly at the spirit. "Thank you, my friend," she spoke to it. "Thank you, to you and the others."

Demona stepped back away from the fay, who stood there, arms folded across its chest, with what appeared to be slight curiosity mixed in with its stiff posture. Demona sighed heavily and started towards the dying fire, intent on stoking it back to its former brilliance.

"With your help," she continued as she picked up the iron poker from where the last spirit had left it, "and the help of the others, I have come to realize something."

Demona took a step to the left, pretending to reach into the hearth with the poker to break up the smoldering logs. Then, without warning, she spun back in the direction of the hooded fay, springing up suddenly on her taloned feet to bring herself eye-level with the being. In a motion smoother than fluid, she brought the arm with the poker around and used the weapon to strike the trickster soundly on the side of its cowled head. Beneath the hood, the being experienced a moment of bright starbursts against its vision, and then the world went black.

A few minutes later, the servant of Oberon painfully regained consciousness, and as the world fell into focus, it found itself in a dingy room with no windows. The walls and floor appeared to be made of solid granite, and the corners of the room were heaped with a variety of crates and artifacts. Covering the wall to its left were shelves overflowing with books, tomes, and vellums, not to mention more than a few jars whose contents were clouded by the dull yellow of preservatives. The wall to the right contained racks which housed a myriad assortment of melee, projectile, and energy weapons.

The fay tried to move, but found itself held fast. Its gaze darted to the left and right, and it realized that it was spread-eagled against the wall, thick iron chains holding it in place at the wrists, ankles, and torso.

"Awake already?" a familiar voice asked, sounding almost sultry. It was not a question. The fay brought its gaze forward again, and in the center of the room, it saw a large worktable, bathed in the harsh glow of fluorescent lights that ran overhead. Demona sat on the edge of the table with her arms and legs crossed, looking almost relaxed, her tail swinging lazily back and forth like a pendulum. The smile on her face looked nothing like the one she had worn upstairs in her living room, having taken on a more lethal quality.

Propped against the worktable, catching the cold glare of the lights, rested a large, corrugated piece of iron sheet metal. The lighting also caught on the iron head of the mace that Demona had buckled to her belt.

"Good," the gargoyle purred as she leapt off the table. She took a moment to flex her wings before drawing them about her shoulders, and then her expression turned more serious.

"As I was saying upstairs," she told the fay, "I've come to a realization. I should have figured this out from the beginning. This entire evening has been one long trick, a pack of lies concocted to make me forswear my revenge against the humans!"

She paced slowly back and forth in front of the fay, never taking her cold emerald eyes off of its shackled form. "Very clever, my friend. First, your shapeshifting cousin assumes my face and wears my defenses down by making me relive the past, trying to blame me for the sins that humanity has committed against my kind. Then it throws Angela into the mix, trying to convince me that we would both be better off if I gave up my quest for vengeance. _Then _your jolly friend steps in and tries to compare humans to gargoyles, as if I have anything in common with that fascist pig, John Castaway."

She stopped pacing and glared at the spirit with icy flames dancing in her eyes. "Finally, after they've done their job, you step in with your lies about how a world without humans really wouldn't be a paradise at all. Clever, but ultimately futile."

More and more, the hooded trickster was starting to wish that it possessed verbal communication. It attempted to gesture in protest, to try and plead with its malicious host that she'd gotten it all wrong, but the chains were too tight.

The corners of Demona's mouth curled into a grin at the sight of her captive's panic. "Now, then," she went on. "I have no doubt that you came at Puck's behalf, but I have a feeling that there's someone else involved in this little plot. Tell me who it is. Is it Xanatos? Macbeth? Thailog? What about Goliath? If it is Goliath's clan, do they know how to find me? Do they know anything else about my home's defenses? Talk!"

There was silence. The fay squirmed more frantically against its bonds, head bobbing in every direction. Demona shook her head and unbuckled the mace from her belt. For a moment, the fay braced itself, thinking she intended to use it on him. But Demona turned, walked back towards table, and the large piece of sheet metal.

Once back at the table, she turned once more to face the hooded trickster. A wicked smirk decorated her features as she started to run the head of the mace slowly up and down the grooves on the metal's surface, producing a series of faint clunking noises. The fay responded with several minute twitches, much the same way most humans would respond to fingernails across a blackboard.

"Feel like talking yet?" Demona asked her captive guest.

Silence. Only a slight shuffling noise, more frantic than before, as the trickster tried to find some leeway against the chains.

Demona grated her mace against the sheet metal again, this time more fervently. The twitching from Oberon's vassal became more pronounced. Demona continued it for a minute more and then suddenly banged hard against the metal's surface, the clang reverberating in the still, recycled air of the basement. This time, the fay reacted as if a battering ram had smashed into its guts. The pain was made even worse by the fact that he could not double over from it.

"Still a little tongue-tied, are we?" Demona asked in a giddy, yet sadistic tone. "Well, perhaps your two friends will prove more loquacious when I interrogate _them_."

The fay looked right at her in what Demona could only guess was an expression of disbelief. She decided it best to go with it, whatever it was. "That's right," she continued. "I plan on calling them here, shortly. I may have lost your queen's mirror, but I have other methods at my disposal for summoning a member of your race. It's amazing what one can collect in a thousand years. That reminds me, I want to show you something."

For a few tense minutes, Demona retreated into the gloom of one of the basement's far corners. The fay could not see her, only hear the sounds of boxes being moved around. Then it heard a very low-pitched squeaking. A sound not created from iron, but unsettling nonetheless.

Finally, Demona emerged from the shadows, pushing a small surgeon's cart in front of her, its wheels squeaking against the smooth granite floor. As she came closer, the fay noticed a bundle wrapped in rich burgundy cloth resting on the cart's tray. Demona wheeled the cart up to her captive and started to slowly unroll the bundle, revealing its contents: an iron hacksaw, an iron-tipped mallet, some iron hooks, and several serrated knives of various lengths.

Demona picked up one of the knives, allowing the light overhead to catch on the blade. She turned it slowly, so the fay could make out just how finely sharpened the small iron teeth were. "You and your friends aren't the only tricksters around here, you know," she told her guest. "Let me show you a little _trick _of my own. I learned this from a Spanish cardinal in the sixteenth century, just before the human met with an unfortunate and rather messy accident."

Flashing her fangs maliciously at the fay, she picked up another knife and started grinding its blade against that of the first knife, producing another sound that made her captive squirm. "Granted, I haven't used this technique in a few decades," she continued as she sharpened the knives. "So I may have grown a little rusty. But that should make it more interesting." She chuckled for a moment at this.

As quickly as the laughter started, it stopped, and she resumed her deadpan expression. "Now then," she said to the fay. "I will ask you nicely one more time: _who _are you working for?"

No reply. But secretly, this was what Demona had been hoping would happen. "Very well," she said curtly, and then unfurled her wings, blocking the light from the fluorescents. Moments before she set upon him with her tools, the mute fay gave a small shudder of resignation. Dawn was still a few hours away, but the being had a feeling that sunrise would offer no respite from the agony.

**The Following Evening**

Demona gave a lazy yawn as she relaxed in her living room, and flipped through the television. It had been a tiring day, but rewarding. From where she lounged on her couch, Demona cast an eye to the mantle of her fireplace, upon which rested a crystal in an ornately curved wooden stand. If she listened closely, she could almost make out the screams from the three spirits imprisoned within.

Their bodies finally shattered from hours of relentless interrogation, it had only taken the appropriate spell to trap the souls of the three meddling tricksters within one of the gargoyle's soul spheres, where they were now eternally held fast in the maelstrom of chaos that existed halfway between life and death. While alive, they'd been unable to tell her anything, but Demona could now say with some certainty that they spoke the truth when they said they acted alone.

It had actually pained Demona somewhat to use the sphere. She had been saving it for Puck, but, well, they both had time. Someday, she'd surely find some other method to make Oberon's wayward child suffer.

For a moment, as she sat there, Demona pondered making a tape recording of the spirits' screams, and mailing it to Owen Burnett's attention at the Eyrie Building. Wouldn't that make a lovely belated Christmas gift for the Puck, to know that he'd signed the death warrant for three of his friends?

The more she thought about the idea, the more Demona became warm to it. She smiled coldly, the television now forgotten. Yes, why not give the trickster a little taste of the same torment he'd bestowed upon others?

Demona stood and made her way over to the fireplace. A fire had been rekindled in the hearth, over which a joint of venison roasted on a spit. For some strange reason, when Demona had summoned Puck's other two friends about an hour before dawn, the bearded spirit of Christmas had had a small reindeer with him.

The animal had looked even more shocked than its master, but Demona killed it anyway, after she'd made sure the two tricksters were securely bound by iron. In her youth, she'd enjoyed hunting with her rookery siblings in the forests around Wyvern, and was still partial to freshly roasted venison when she could get her hands on it.

Demona had been cooking it for several hours how. The last time she checked it was right after she had dispatched her guests, and was on her way upstairs to take a shower. The torture _had_ grown a little messy in the final stretch. Demona thanked the dragon she had spare evening attire…

Licking her lips hungrily, Demona cut a large portion from the bone, amazed at how easily it gave way beneath the knife. The magic of the Third Race wasn't all bad, she mused to herself. Whatever this deer had been fed on Avalon, it made the meat extra succulent.

She returned to her seat, set the plate down on the coffee table, and poured herself another glass of wine. She paused before she started eating and raised her glass to the crystal mounted on her mantle. "To life," she mockingly toasted her captive audience, and then laughed.

As she ate, Demona's mind was working feverishly. There were a few things in the present that she needed to take care of. Her assistant, for one thing. She'd have to find some excuse to let Erin go. For a moment, the gargoyle wondered if she should simply have Erin killed, but decided that she couldn't devote the time or resources to it. No, Demona just needed the human out of her hair. She'd die, with the rest of humanity, someday…

Henrickson, Bruford, and Harper were another story altogether. Demona sipped her wine and pondered the best way to permanently dispose of them. For a while, she tried to come up with a suicide mission-type scenario that she could send them on, then she thought of something else. Why not invite the three of them to a meeting at her house at sundown? Yes, watching their employer transform right before she tore them open would be a nice little surprise, at least for the few remaining seconds of their lives.

She yawned luxuriously and sat back on the couch, the food still warm in her belly, and put her feet up on the table. She'd make up her mind later. It _had_ been a long day, after all.

_Why not take a little time off? _The voice in the back of her head chimed in. Demona curled and uncurled her foot talons and considered. Yes, perhaps a little working vacation would be nice. Tomorrow morning, she'd call the office and inform them she'd be working out of her home for the next few days. Among other things, she could finally get around to safely analyzing that book from the Khan Dynasty. Perhaps something in there would provide a key to bringing her closer to her ultimate goal.

Relaxing on her couch with her wineglass balanced on her impossibly slim midriff, Demona cast one more look at the crystal on her mantle and snorted in its direction. Lying fools, all three of them. If anything, when the human race was finally reduced to dust and bones, the gargoyles of the world would vindicate her. She just knew it.

Ah, well. Enough of that for now. The three tricksters weren't going anywhere, and she had an eternity to gloat at them. For the moment, it was time to relax. Demona clutched her wineglass and sat up, turning off the television with her other hand. "I think I'll see what's in the funnies," she mused to herself as she set the remote down and picked up the newspaper.

She took a moment to top off her drink before settling back down into the couch with the paper and flipping to the obituaries. _Not a bad day overall_, she thought to herself. _If only more of my Christmases could be like this. But then, I might run the risk of actually liking this cursed human holiday_. She shook her head and went back to reading the obits, feeling, for the moment, at peace with herself, if not the world…

**The End.**


End file.
